Phone Tag
by windscryer
Summary: A demon hunter and a fake psychic walk into a bar... Oh wait, that was the LAST story. This is what happens after. Spoilers run amok for all episodes of both Psych and Supernatural. Gen. PYO ASR2.
1. One: Ramblin' Man

This is a continuation of _A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar . . ._

It will be a series which ties the two shows together with little stitches of one-shot love. There will be other stories outside of this, this is just to explore both series from a slightly outsideish POV and to show how they work out timeline wise.

No MAJOR timeline shifts have been made. All episodes are dealt with in canonical order. Because of the uneven number of epis, though, there will be some chappies that deal with only one show or the other episodically.

Spoilers possible--and really likely in fact--for every last episode of both. Current epis for the chapter will be declared in the notes.

**Rated for language in some chapters.** Because Dean has quite the potty mouth, Sam has been aping Dean since before he was old enough to know what that meant, and even Shawn's inexhaustibly easy temper can be riled with enough poking.

And I like to poke. :D

Disclaimer: I did mention that these are _missing_ scenes, right? Implying they aren't in the show? If I owned either show--preferably _both_ :D--they would not be missing. They would be canon. You do the math. :D

**TIMELINE MARKER:**

SPN - Barely pre-Pilot

Psych - Still pre-series. It's gonna take a while to catch up. :D

* * *

Dean fingered the buttons of his phone—an action he'd been repeating on and off for the last five minutes or so.

He was trying to decide if he should place a call.

The screen lit up as he pressed another button, hooded eyes locked on the contact displayed. He sighed and let the phone drop to his lap, head turning to the side to look out the window.

Two years was a long time. Maybe too long.

This was Sammy, though. His little brother. How could _any_ amount of time be too long for family?

He closed his eyes summoning up a picture of his brother, then grimaced when he realized it was the memory of the last time he'd met his brother's eyes during The Fight.

His father's voice echoed in his head, the words bringing a wince now as it did then.

"_You walk out that door, you don't ever come back."_

Sam's eyes had widened briefly, then narrowed. He'd glanced at Dean—who'd been too damn frozen by the shock of the words to do more than stare dumbly—then walked out.

Oh yeah. That was how. Dean sighed and let his head fall back against the seat back, forcing the memory away.

Rubbing at a headache brewing just above his eyes, he growled, then punched the phone button and lifted it to his ear.

It took a few rings, then finally it was picked up.

"_Hello?"_

Dean yanked the phone back at the unexpected voice, then blinked at the name displayed. _Shawn Spencer._

_Oh. Oops._ Must have hit the down button to bring up the next name in his list.

"_Hello? Helloooooo?"_

Dean blinked again and put the phone back to his ear. Dammit all.

"Hi, uh, Shawn?"

There was a pause then, _"Dean! Dude! Hey, what's up, man? Need help with another werewolf?"_ the other man asked with a chuckle.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said dryly. "I've been hunting the damn things since I was fourteen, but I just don't know if I can handle it anymore. Won't you come save me?"

Shawn laughed. _"Anytime, dude. Where are you?"_

Dean looked at the sign sitting a few feet in front of his bumper at the side of a freeway. _"Welcome to California!"_ it proclaimed.

"Here and there," he decided.

"_Cool, cool. So if you don't need my help with a werewolf, then what's up?"_

Dean frantically sought a reason for his accidental call. Somehow saying, "I meant to dial my little brother whom I haven't spoken to in years but I hit your number by accident," didn't seem like the right thing. Especially with the chick-flick undertones it carried.

And then it hit him.

"You still driving all over the freakin' country on that bike of yours?"

"_Yup. Why?"_

"Could you do me a favor?"

"_Depends. If it's tall, furry, and has some nasty stink-ass breath, the answer is no." _ There was a beat. _ "The same goes for vampires, demons, and whatever the hell else kind of company you regularly seek out."_

Dean grinned. "Not that kind of problem, dumbass."

"_Just so we're clear._"

"As mud. I want you to keep an eye out for someone."

"Is this someone female? And available?" Shawn asked, the leer in his voice more than obvious.

"Uh, no, dude, he's male and not looking and, also, my dad."

There was a pause.

"_Okay then. Got a description?_"

Dean rattled off his father's features and then explained that he didn't want Shawn to approach him, just wanted a call saying he'd been spotted.

"_Why not? I could totally pass on a message-"_

"No!" Dean squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that had been the wrong way to answer and praying Shawn let it go.

That was just what he needed. His dad to think he was spying on him. Plus, there was a better than even chance Shawn would end up on the wrong side of a blade or barrel of John Winchester's and that was a poor way to repay a friend helping you out.

To his eternal gratitude, Shawn dropped it.

"Okay. Sure. Hey, you need anything else? Because I have made the acquaintance of a very lovely girl named Mandi and I think she's gonna wander off if I take much longer getting our drinks."

Dean laughed, relaxing. "She hot?"

Shawn sounded offended. "Psh. She's a _gymnast_. And also, totally smoking hot, yeah."

"Don't let me stand in your way then, dude. Have fun."

"Oh we will," Shawn said. "We definitely will. See ya 'round."

"Later," Dean said and ended the call.

He stared at his phone a moment, then set it on the seat and reached for the gear shift.

Screw calling. It was easy to hang up on a person and it gave warning. He wasn't close enough to Palo Alto that Sam couldn't escape before he got there.

But if he just showed up unannounced . . . Yeah. Lot harder to hang up on a person standing on your doorstep. Or in your living room.

Merging back onto the freeway he pointed his headlights towards California and hit the gas.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	2. Two: Fly The Friendly Skies

We jumped a bit here, skipping some episodes, but it's going to take a little time to work up to the point where they can call each other every week and not have it be weird. :D

**TIMELINE MARKER:**

Psych - Still preseries. According to Shawn's resume on the USA website, this would be just prior to his trip to Thailand. :D

SPN - Just after _Phantom Traveler_.

* * *

"Dean, what are we doing?"

Shawn glanced up from where he was locking his door, then did a double take when he realized he recognized one of the two guys—as well as the black beauty of a car they were climbing out of.

"We're getting a room, Sam, and then we are finding a bar because right now, I could really use a drink. You got a problem with that, Francis?"

"Dean?" Shawn said.

The two men stopped and looked at Shawn.

Dean, after a moment to place the face, smiled wide and held out a hand. "Shawn! Hey, how's it going, man?"

"Great!" Shawn replied. "Been a little dull without any mythical beasties around, but, uh, awesome mostly." He looked to the other guy, Sam apparently, and returned the once over he was getting, though his was probably less suspicious.

"Dude, if this is your dad, you suck at description. Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not aging well. He looks at least four years younger than you."

Sam's eyebrows rose, but Dean just rolled his eyes and said, gesturing between the two, "Sammy, this is Shawn Spencer. I helped him with a werewolf problem in Iowa a coupla months back. Shawn, this is my little brother, Sammy."

Shawn arched an eyebrow and looked up at the at-least-three-inches-taller-than-his-already-tall-brother Sam as he shook his hand. "Little?" he asked.

Sam smiled. "He's still bitter about how puberty _short_-changed him," the taller Winchester explained.

Dean shot Sam a glare, while Shawn returned the grin.

"Yeah, well, he's also good at selectively editing history. Because if I remember correctly—and I _always_ do—I was the one who took care of Dean's werewolf problem."

Sam's eyebrows rose as his eyes shifted to his brother and back. "No kidding?"

Dean interrupted before Shawn could respond. "Lucky shot," he said. "And he wouldn't have even had that much luck if not for me. This guy was drunker'n a skunk when I found him stumbling down the street totally unaware there was a werewolf in the bushes tailing him."

"Maybe," Shawn allowed, "but you're the one who missed it at almost point-blank range."

"It moved!" Dean protested.

"Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart." He added a wink and an air kiss.

Sam was watching the conversation with much amusement, eyes flicking back and forth like he was on the sidelines at Wimbledon, but at that last endearment—and especially the accompanying actions—he had to speak up. "Did you just call my brother sweetheart?"

Shawn grinned and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh not this again," he moaned.

"What's the matter, pookybear? You didn't tell your brother about us? I'm hurt," Shawn said, palm coming to rest on his shirt.

Dean pointed a finger at Shawn, "Stop it. We are not going there again. Not after the day I've had."

Sam looked like he intended to go there no matter what Dean wanted, but there was something in Dean's eyes that made Shawn ease back.

"Oh no. Don't tell me there's another werewolf." His eyes darted around, scanning the parking lot of the motel, his tone and actions only half joking.

"Nah," Dean said with a wave of his hand. "Demon on a plane. But we already took care of it. That's why we need a bar. Because demons suck. Demons on planes? They redefine the word 'suck'."

Shawn cocked his head. "You're a nervous flyer?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What makes you say that?" he said, shifting his stance back and forth a bit, trying a cocky smile on for size. Shawn wasn't buying it.

"Well, for one, you hunt werewolves, so even if _I_ think demons are freaky, it's unlikely you do. For two, your shirt cuffs are wet, likely indicative of a recent trip to the bathroom, but the amount of water suggests that you were splashing your face rather than washing your hands. And three, when you said the word 'plane' your voice remained steady but your hands were just a _smiiidge_ shaky," he explained, hand coming up on that last point, finger and thumb about an inch apart.

Sam's eyebrows rose throughout the recounting, Dean's joining them at the end.

"Okay, Rainman."

Shawn sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not exactly. Anyway," he said, waving a hand. "You need a bar, right? Then follow me. There's this great club two streets over-"

"Whoa there," Dean said, holding up a hand. "We need a room first. Because I intend to be barely conscious when we get back and I am not going to be able to find my wallet, let alone wrestle a card out of it."

"You sure you want another room that's not going to be used?" Shawn asked, half smile returning to his lips. "Seems a waste of money if last time is any indication."

Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the office as Sam's eyebrows—and the corners of his mouth—again started crawling upwards. "Yeah well, with Sasquatch back in the picture the empty bed is now full, so unless you intend to sleep on the floor . . ."

Shawn opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off, spinning as he walked and pointing a finger at the other man. "And don't even joke about sharing a bed. Wait until I have at least half a bottle of Jack in me before you start that shit."

Dean disappeared to secure a room while Sam turned to Shawn.

"So, uh, do I even want to know?" he asked, but there was laughter in his voice.

Shawn chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not what it sounds like. Really."

"That I'm pretty sure of because I can't think of a more heterosexual male than my brother and, unless I'm mistaken, Shawn is not a nickname for Shawn-a." That got him a dirty look, but he just continued on, apparently impervious to them. "So unless he's even better than I think at hiding his secrets, or something really drastic changed in the last two years, it's definitely not what it sounds like. That doesn't mean it won't serve as excellent blackmail."

Shawn laughed outright at that. "Oh you are definitely a little brother." His laughter continued as light chuckles as he said, "It's a . . . long story. And I'm pretty sure you had to be there. Suffice it to say there was some confusion back in Iowa that became something of a running joke before the night was over."

Sam chuckled and was about to say something more when Dean reappeared, scowling.

"What?" Sam asked.

"They don't have any more rooms."

Shawn stifled a snort of amusement, then said, "Seriously, Dean, you guys can stay with me. I can take the floor-"

"Oh no," Sam said. "We'd hate to put you out-"

Shawn waved a hand. "No worries, man. I sleep like the dead. Water bed, park bench, or motel floor, it's all the same to me. Although I prefer my water beds with female company and park benches require a more creative placement of one's wallet to prevent theft. Plus the plan is to get plastered, right?" he said, arms coming up in a half shrug. "As long as it's semi-horizontal I'm good."

Dean looked like he was weighing his options and then he caught Sam's eye and Shawn watched in fascination as they had an entire conversation consisting of raised and lowered eyebrows, subtle hand movements, and head tilts.

He was loathe to interrupt, but he had one other tidbit of information. "There's an Indiana Colts game tonight, guys, and you are smack dab in the middle of town. You're not going to find a hotel within city limits that isn't packed. So it's either share with me, don't get plastered and keep driving, or crunch into your car there. And while she is easy on the eyes I'm guessing she's murder on the spine." He gave Sam a once up and down. "Especially for Sasquatches."

Sam gave him a dark look for picking up the nickname and Dean didn't look pleased at the insinuation that his baby was less than perfect in every way.

Shawn ignored both. "So? What's it going to be?"

Another flurry of silent words came, ending when Sam's shoulders twitched upwards and Dean's eyes rolled. "Fine. Whatever. Where's the alcohol?"

Sam smiled and Shawn grinned.

"Right this way."

o.o

The club was packed and, while it wasn't Dean's normal style, it wasn't country either so it was close enough. No pool tables or dart boards, just a dance floor and way too many lights in a rainbow of colors that flashed and pulsed with the beat. But if they served alcohol and didn't twang, Dean could put up with the lights and the eighties pop music.

"I see your taste in music hasn't improved," Dean shouted over the bass vibrating his skull and the heavy rumble of conversation punctuated by laughter in spurts.

Shawn grinned. "Neither has yours apparently."

A table was procured and drinks were ordered and Shawn let Sam ask him questions about where he was from and what he was doing here, while Dean soothed his nerves with the help of his old buddies Jack and José.

When the shaking of Dean's hands turned into a smoother sort of swaying as he tried to bring the shot glass to his lips, Shawn asked, "So a demon on a plane?"

Sam, who'd had a beer and was now working on a Coke and some nachos, glanced up, but let Dean take the lead.

"Yeah," his older brother said. "Sonuvabitch liked bringing down planes. I hate planes," he said, waving his hand and looking Shawn mostly in the eye. "I mean, it's not natural, you know? Putting that much air between you and ground." He shook his head and lifted another shot of José, downing it, then shaking his head like a dog as it burned its way down his throat, the glass hitting the table again with a sharp clack. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to wait until they get up there and bring 'em down. 'S downright stupid."

Shawn nodded. "I don't really have an opinion on planes. Beyond the fact that they're useful."

Dean snorted and pointed a wobbly finger at Shawn. "Not as useful as a car." He had to pause to belch, then continued. "See, a plane can get you from LA to New York just like a car. But when you get to New York you're stuck. You hafta walk or take the subway or rent a car. But," he said, finger coming up to point at the ceiling and sway from side to side, "if you drive to New York from LA, then you already have a car. No walking or subways needed. And it's cheaper, too," he added, leaning forward. He pulled back and nodded, taking another shot of Jack with him to slurp at and mostly pour down his shirt.

Probably for the best. Even if he did intend to get hammered, he was most of the way there—with several shots still left in front of him—and he didn't really need the extra hangover fuel in the morning.

"So, Sam," Shawn said when Dean became fascinated with watching the dance floor, though the look on his face said it bore a greater resemblance to a really big lava lamp turned on its side than people grooving to the beat pumping out of the speakers. "What were you hunting while Dean was in Iowa?"

Sam's eyes looked down and away and Shawn internally winced at the obvious indication he'd just stepped on a land mine.

"Sammy was in shhool." Dean frowned, apparently cognizant he'd not quite nailed that pronunciation, but shrugged it off. "He's gonna be a lawyer," he added, pride shining through his slightly glassy eyes as he clapped Sam on the shoulder and gave him a firm shake that didn't really move Sam but almost sent Dean off of his high stool and onto the ground.

Sam steadied his brother, then half smiled at Shawn, who was seeing all sorts of intriguing things in the interaction between the brothers.

"I was at Stanford," he elaborated.

"Not one for the family business?" Shawn asked, deliberately keeping it light. "S'okay. I can totally agree with you on that. Your brother hunts some scary shit."

Sam tilted his head and toyed with his drink, a sardonic smile twitching his lips. "Yeah, well, even if I'm not one for the family business it, uh, seems to be one for me."

Shawn was about to ask about that, when Dean's unfocused gaze suddenly sharpened and he slid off of his stool. "Gotta piss," he said bluntly and started weaving away from the table.

"Dean-" Sam said, standing, but Dean waved him off.

"Don' need your help, princess. Got this one by myself, thanks."

He took a moment to blink at the lights until Shawn extended an arm with a wry smile and said, "Thataway."

Dean nodded and headed out, his trajectory more or less straight. It was close enough anyway.

Sam watched him go, then said, eyes back on his drink, "I didn't agree with my dad when I was a teenager."

Shawn snorted and sipped his drink, a lovely Mai Tai with an extra shot of pineapple juice. Dean had given him an odd look and chuffed a laugh at the order, but said nothing about it outright. "Who does?" he asked, eyes drifting momentarily to a couple of girls walking past who were all but poured into their tiny skirts and shorts with itty-bitty tank tops to match.

"Dean."

Shawn looked back and arched a brow at the quick—and maybe vaguely bitter—response and Sam shrugged and began shredding a napkin. "Dean didn't argue with our father. Ever. Our dad was a Marine. And after Mom died, he raised us like soldiers. And Dean fell right in line." Another shrug. "I never really embraced the concept of 'orders' or 'need to know'. And when I became a teenager it only got worse. So when high school ended and I landed a full ride to Stanford . . ."

"You ran like the hounds of hell were on your heels," Shawn said, empathy in his tone.

Sam half smiled at Shawn's choice of phrase. "Pretty much."

Shawn nodded. "I get that. I really do. My dad wanted me to become a cop like him. Trained me my whole life. Since before I was in kindergarten. He used to play this game, 'How many hats?'" Shawn said with a laugh. "Drove me nuts. Still does actually. But I didn't _really_ fight it until I got into high school and my parents started arguing over . . . whatever." He waved a hand. "Stuff. Everything. And then they split up. And my dad . . ." His eyes dropped to his own drink and he took a sip from the straw before continuing.

"Well, anyway, when high school ended and my college fund came under my control I bought my bike and hit the road. I was done living with all those rules and expectations that I was never going to meet. It was just . . ."

Shawn shook his head and took another drink while Sam nodded and leaned back.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Then he tilted his head again. "So how did you meet Dean exactly?"

Shawn laughed and leaned in, much more comfortable with this subject. "It all started with a game of pool . . ." he said, grinning.

Sam leaned in as well, his attention focused fully on Shawn as the tale of the werewolf hunt gone awry was told with all the enthusiasm of a writer pitching a movie script, complete with hand motions and an impressive array of facial expressions.

Sam's gaze flicked occasionally away, Shawn sometimes following as they tracked Dean's progress back from the bathroom—a trip that was made much longer by the fact that he detoured over by the bar and around the dance floor, circling the entire club before he located his brother and Shawn once more.

Which was fine because it gave Shawn plenty of time to tell his story.

Shawn was just getting to the part where Dean stitched up his own leg, an account that didn't seem to surprise Sam at all—which was probably understandable if he'd been raised to the lifestyle—when Dean made it back, stumbling along and catching himself on the table.

"You ladies have fun chit-chit- chit-chuh- chit- Shit. Talking while I was gone?" he asked, wide grin slopped on his face.

"Yeah," Sam said. Shawn nodded and finished off his drink, slurping noisily on the straw to get the last bit out of the bottom.

Dean downed his last shot, studied the table for a few moments until he was able to come to the conclusion that the glasses were all empty except for Sam's Coke.

"Where's the-" he started to ask as he looked around.

Sam caught his arm and kept him from falling at the movement and said, "I think you've sufficiently drowned your terror. Time to head back to the room and get you into bed."

Dean poked at Sam's chest and said, "Don' you start too. I'lready have to fight off Shawn. An' you're m'brother. 'S gross, dude."

"Dean, there is not enough alcohol in this _world_ to bring that about so don't even worry about it," Sam said with all the patience of a little brother for his sloshed older brother, ignoring the way Dean was poking at one of the buttons on his over-shirt. He grabbed the hand and forced it down, the action bringing Dean's eyes up to blink at Sam's face.

The exchange elicited a chuckle from Shawn who dropped some cash on the table for a tip and then stood to help Sam with Dean. He was feeling loose and easy because of the couple of drinks he'd had, but he was steady enough to assist Dean in keeping his feet as they walked back. And Sam hadn't been in the mood to drink beyond that one beer so he didn't need any help. A good thing because he would also be serving as navigation and steering for Dean more than likely, if not also prop.

"Sammy, you need to relax," Dean said as he was ushered in the direction of the door. "You need to get _laid_."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean started scanning the crowd for a suitable girl, smiling and waving at some who returned it, then giggled to their friends.

"Really, Dean, I'm fine. And Shawn already said he doesn't want to sleep in the Impala so there won't be any girls tonight anyway."

Dean's head rolled over to Shawn's side. "You don' like my car?" he asked, sounding mortally wounded at the insult.

"I love your car, dude," Shawn assured him. "She's a classic and a beauty."

Dean's smile made an abrupt reappearance. "Tha' she is." He chuckled. "An' she's loyal too. Never left me." His voice quieted as he looked down to navigate the step required to get out the door. "She's th' only family that's never 'bandoned me."

Shawn glanced up at Sam at that and caught the pained grimace, but looked away and pretended to concentrate on his own feet as they stepped off the curb and into the street.

Then Dean's head shot up and he was grinning again.

"Hey, Sammy, you know Shawn has a motorcyl- motorsick- a bike? Goes vrooom?"

Sam smiled at his brother, then met Shawn's eyes. "Yeah, I hear he does."

"'S pretty. Not as pretty as my baby, but . . ."

They finished their slow stroll back to the motel listening to Dean's comparison between the two which, predictably, favored his car.

o.o

Arrival at the motel found Dean leaning ever more heavily on Sam and softly singing . . . something . . . that Sam and Shawn hadn't really tried to identify while Shawn dug his key out of his pocket.

He located the errant key and got the door opened, then held it while Sam dragged Dean past and deposited him on the bed nearest the door.

Shawn was headed for the bathroom when he heard Dean protesting and what sounded like a scuffle and looked back to see Sam trying to find the keys to the car in Dean's pockets while Dean fought him off mumbling something about not being in the mood.

Sam rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored his brother, locating the keys and stuffing them in his own pocket with a sigh.

Shawn laughed and continued on his trip as Sam wrestled his brother's feet out of his boots.

By the time he was back out, clad in his pajamas, Dean had been manhandled out of his jeans and jacket as well as his boots, then tucked under the covers of the bed he had been dropped on. He was now quite soundly asleep and Sam was gone.

Shawn shrugged and took the top blanket off the other bed along with a pillow, settling down on the floor bedroll style.

The door—which had been left open a crack—was pushed open the rest of the way and Sam entered, a duffel over each shoulder and another in his hand, a laptop satchel in the other hand.

"Shawn," he said when he saw the apparent sleeping arrangements, "you really don't have to sleep on the floor. Dean and I can share a bed. Except for the occasional apartment, we pretty much did so from before I can remember until I went away to college."

Shawn didn't open his eyes, opting instead to wave a hand. "I'm not moving, dude. Horizontal is my favorite direction right now."

Sam sighed, but didn't protest further.

The bags were set down by the table and then the sounds of rummaging reached Shawn's ears. He let his mind and body relax, preparing to slip into sleep as Sam made a trip to the bathroom and completed his nightly routine.

He was almost gone when Sam came back out and started making odd noises—including a soft shushing which sounded a lot like something dry being poured.

Shawn frowned, then cracked his eyes open, sitting up when he realized what he was seeing.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Because his eyes had to be deceiving him.

Sam glanced over, but didn't stop the solid line of salt he was pouring along the windowsill. "Warding the room," he said easily, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to season your windows.

Shawn scratched his head, his weary and somewhat alcohol-soaked brain trying valiantly to rally once more before the day was over.

"What?" he finally said.

Sam gave a quick smile as he finished the line and drew a quick line at the door. "Salt has a long history of being used as a purifier. It's used to ward off demons and ghosts among other things. It'll keep them from getting in while we sleep."

Shawn pondered that for a second, then said, "Wait, I thought Dean said you got the demon."

"We did. But that doesn't mean there aren't more in the area we're not aware of." Sam shrugged and capped the can. "It's mostly a precaution. We're not expecting anything," he added, trying to reassure the other man.

Shawn was still frowning. "You do this every night?"

Sam cocked his head, then nodded. "Except when I was at school? Yeah. Since I was a baby." He dug a grease pencil out of one of the bags and sketched a few quick symbols on the windows and door.

"What's that?" Shawn asked.

"More protection, for other kinds of things that could try to break in while we're less aware and more vulnerable. These are more basic and general, but combined with the salt and some of the charms we have, they're effective enough. They'll give us enough time to get weapons anyway."

Shawn's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He thought some of the symbols looked familiar—then realized that he'd seen them in Dean's room in Iowa.

Huh. Scrunching his brow, he concentrated and realized that there had been salt lines at the window and ground into the carpet at the door as well.

He tried to imagine what it would be like growing up as a child and having that kind of knowledge, that the things in horror movies were real and ghost stories told around a campfire weren't just stories, but couldn't fathom it.

Crazy stuff, he thought and was about to lay back down and go to sleep when Sam pulled the duffel he'd been working out of up onto the table and started unloading it.

Shotguns, a couple of magazines for handguns, several knives—including a very large Bowie—and a couple of bottles that Shawn recognized from last time. The 'HH2O'.

Holy Water. For demons.

He blinked and watched as Sam went around the room stashing the knives and magazines, putting a few in the drawer of the nightstand between the beds along with the Holy Water. Dean's pillow was carefully eased up and the large knife slipped underneath, Sam taking a moment to guide Dean's hand under to where the blade now lay.

The lines on Dean's face actually smoothed and his breathing deepened when Sam stepped away to finish dispersing the armory.

Sam appeared to finally be satisfied—though Shawn couldn't really blame him as the formerly stuffed duffel was now empty, the contents scattered and hidden all over the room—and took one of the shotguns that was left, placing it on the floor and sliding it just underneath the edge of his bed for easy access.

Then he finally sat down, wiped a hand over his face, and caught Shawn staring at him.

He gave a wan smile. "I did mention our dad was a Marine, right?"

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, uh, something like that." A moment later his thoughts came blurting out. "Paranoid much?"

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair and looking vaguely sheepish.

"Dean would say that just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. And my dad would say 'better safe than sorry'." He shrugged. "I go along with it because I've learned the value of being prepared for anything."

Shawn couldn't really argue that point.

"It, uh, it's not going to make you nervous to sleep is it?" Sam asked, genuinely concerned and sounding a bit guilty. "Because we can go and let you have your room in peace, really. I'm fine to drive-"

"No, dude." Shawn gave him a look. "Come on. I'm not going to chase you away because you guys are a couple of super Boy Scouts. Relax. If anything I should be grateful because I'm probably safer tonight than normal, considering I never put condiments around the entrances and exits and I don't have enough weaponry to supply a third-world country's revolution."

Sam huffed out a laugh, but seemed to be more at ease. "Yeah, well, lucky you. I wish I could pretend this didn't all exist." He laid back against the pillow and sighed. "But then I guess I did for four years. And look what that got me," he added quietly, almost to himself.

Shawn was reminded of his curiosity regarding what had brought the black sheep of the Winchester family back into the fold, but something about Sam's tone said it wasn't anything good and poking would probably not be taken well.

So instead he said, "Well at least you know what's out there. I mean, ignorance is only bliss until you almost get eaten by a werewolf and have the dumb luck to be stalked by a guy who happens to carry a gun with silver bullets and knows what to look for in a snobby bar patron."

Sam snorted. "Maybe. It also helps when you're not cursed."

Now Shawn gave him a sharp look. "Cursed?" he repeated.

Sam waved it off. "Not like that. I mean, curses like that do exist, but . . ." He shrugged. "Mine is more in a general 'the universe hates me' sort of way."

Shawn nodded. "Ah. Okay. Just . . . you know . . ."

"Don't worry," Sam said, letting his eyes close. "I'm not contagious. Not . . . like that anyway. Just don't hang around me long term and you'll be fine."

Shawn frowned again, but Sam shut off the light and rolled under the blankets. "Night, Shawn."

"Night, Sam," he murmured, snuggling back into his own makeshift bed.

But, like last time he shared a room with a Winchester, sleep was a long time in coming.

o.o

Shawn looked around at the beach surrounding him, noted the pineapples hollowed out to serve as cups to hold slushie of the same flavor—complete with the requisite tiny umbrellas—and smiled. The rush of the ocean waves and the sounds of native wildlife added to the ambiance, though happily the sounds of other people were completely absent.

Wherever this white sand beach, lined with lush palms and watched over by a towering black peak swathed in emerald, was located, it wasn't well known.

Shawn turned and arched an eyebrow.

Except, of course, by _her_.

The beautiful blonde was stretched out on her stomach on a blanket, eyes hidden under sleek black shades, a brightly-colored hibiscus tucked behind her right ear which lay facing up, the expanse of her nicely tanned back only broken by the strings of her pink and white bikini.

Oh yes. This was a very nice dream. Shawn loved this kind of dream.

Shawn smirked and snagged the pineapples from where they sat on a table planted in the sand under the huge umbrella, then moved to join his fair companion.

She shifted when he knelt on the blanket, then reached up with one slim hand to pull down the sunglasses.

Smiling at him, she looked him in the eye . . . and screamed bloody murder, face twisting in terror.

A very manly scream actually. Shawn frowned. What the-

He jerked awake when he realized that the scream wasn't coming from the dream center of his brain, but his ears.

Adrenaline flooded his system as he jackknifed into a sitting position, looking around and wondering what the hell was attacking who.

His eyes went to the beds just in time to see a dark form practically leap from one to the other, something that glittered in the harsh red light of the alarm clock in hand, and he skittered back a few inches before he realized it was just Dean and his big -ass knife from under his pillow.

Seriously. That _couldn't_ be safe. Where it was stored or the way he was leaping about with it.

Shawn gaped at the scene playing out before him, Sam staring wide-eyed and panicked, arm gripping Dean's with what had to be a painful intensity.

Dean, having assessed the situation with remarkable aplomb for someone who had been as drunk as he was just a few hours before, just laid the knife aside on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, not bothering to free his arm, the other hand gripping Sam's shoulder as he tried to reach his terrified sibling and bring him back to reality.

"You okay there, Sammy? You with me now?"

Sam's head jerked toward his brother and he blinked, still panting harshly. "Dean?" he asked, voice sounding an awful lot like a plea.

Shawn dropped his gaze, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment as he watched the Winchester brothers and wondering if it would be too obvious if he got up and went to go hide in the bathroom. Maybe go fetch some ice or . . . something.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean reassured him. "It was just a nightmare. You're safe, all right? You hear me, little brother?"

Sam nodded and wiped a hand over his face. "Yeah, I hear-"

He stopped mid-motion, seeing Shawn and realizing that Dean hadn't been his only audience. He abruptly let go of Dean and shifted away, expression going blank as he ducked his head. "I'm fine," he said, voice flat and not at all convincing. "Sorry for waking you."

Dean's head jerked back, then he seemed to remember Shawn, turning to see him rolling over and shuffling back under his covers.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Dude-" Dean started, but Sam just lay back down and turned on his side.

"Really," Sam said, more sincerely this time, "I'm fine. Night, Dean. Sorry, Shawn."

Dean didn't move for a long moment, staring at his brother's back.

Then he rolled his eyes and went back to his own bed, muttering something that was not complimentary whatever it was.

No one found sleep anytime soon, but that didn't stop them all from valiantly pretending that they had.

o.o

Shawn was awakened the next morning by the soft click of the door and the blessed smell of coffee, among other delicious scents.

He inhaled deeply, then blinked and started to sit up.

Sam was just setting a bag of food on the table, a paper tray of coffees joining it.

"Morning," he said when he saw Shawn was conscious, if scowling.

"Man, what time is it?" Shawn asked, blinking sleepily at the light coming through the windows.

"Almost ten actually."

Shawn's eyebrows rose. "Huh," he said articulately.

"Hey, uh, sorry about last night," Sam started. "I-"

Shawn waved a hand. "Don't worry. Dude, with your line of work if you _didn't_ have nightmares, I'd think it was weird."

Sam considered that for a moment, his intense gaze making Shawn feel just a little uncomfortable as it lingered.

Shawn was actually pretty sure that it wasn't _just_ the job because, well, Dean didn't seem to have any problems sleeping and besides, after a lifetime of this you probably got used to it. I mean, you had to, right? Besides it was also really damn obvious that Sam didn't want to talk about whatever it was. Especially not with a stranger. And even in the short time he'd spent with the brothers, Shawn knew that Dean wouldn't be mentioning it. So Shawn didn't press for details. He just let it go.

Not like he wanted to play psychologist anyway. That was his mom's deal and he didn't want to follow in her footsteps any more than he wanted to follow in his dad's.

"Yeah," Sam finally said, looking at the ground, eyebrows bobbing up and back down. "Weird."

He left it at that and an awkwardness settled, prompting Shawn to cough, clear his throat, scratch his chest, and then stretch to try and break it.

Sam took that as his cue and reached down to shake the foot sticking out the end of the bed he was standing next to. He got a groan and a shift of covers, the foot withdrawing back into the safety underneath them.

"Rise and shine, Dean!" he said, voice loud enough to have Shawn wincing in sympathy. He wasn't hung over but it was pretty much guaranteed that Dean would be. Even if it hadn't seemed like much of a problem at two o'clock in the morning.

Damn that guy was fast with a blade.

A grumbled—and anatomically impossible—suggestion came from under the blankets. Sam was unfazed.

"You were the one who wanted to drink last night and you needed it so I didn't stop you, but we have things to do, Dean. Places to go. People to see. Things to kill."

Dean let another drawn out moan escape as the covers were yanked off, but he levered himself up and scowled at the world in general. "I hate you," he mumbled causing Sam to laugh.

"It's José and Jack you should be hating," Sam said as he handed over a cup of coffee to Dean, then one to Shawn.

Dean popped the lid and chugged the coffee like it was water, sending Shawn's eyebrows north.

With a wince for the fact that his tongue no longer had working taste buds due to the scalding temperature they'd just been flooded with, Dean accepted the second cup Sam offered, but only sipped this one.

"You want first shower?" he asked Shawn.

"Nah. Go for it, dude."

Dean nodded, scrounged up clean enough clothes, and shuffled off for the rest of his wake-up/hangover routine.

Shawn joined Sam at the table for a breakfast of deep-fried artery cloggers with a side of heart burn. But there was only enough of that for two people. Unless Sam's size was deceptive and he didn't need to eat his own weight in food every day to maintain his Gigantor frame.

But that illusion was destroyed moments later. Sam had apparently stopped at a grocery store for his own breakfast of a bowl of fruit chunks. Including pineapple.

Tongue sliding over his lips, Shawn eyed the delicious golden fruit, then flicked them up to Sam, wondering if he could steal a bite or two. Or twelve.

And then, glory of glories, someone somewhere heard his prayer and Sam started picking the pineapple out with a grimace, depositing it in a heap on the plastic lid of his fruit salad.

"You, uh, not a fan of delicious flavor?" Shawn asked.

Sam looked up from under his lowered head, then followed Shawn's finger to the pineapple.

"You actually like pineapple?" Sam asked.

"How can you not?" Shawn asked, grabbing the lid and popping a chunk in his mouth.

"Help yourself then," Sam said, slightly amused, if mostly disgusted, as he watched Shawn devour most of the pile of tart yellow wedges. "I figured you for more of a carnivorous fast food aficionado like my brother. But there's a store not too far away if you don't want what I got you. You want me to make another run?"

Shawn licked his fingers to get every last drop of juice, then sighed in contentment. He picked up his breakfast sandwich and took a huge bite, again making Sam wince.

"This is great, dude," Shawn said, bits of egg and cheese and sausage easily visible as he spoke. He held up a hand pointer and thumb coming together in the 'OK' gesture. "Perfect, in fact." He swallowed and said in all seriousness, "But pineapple is pineapple."

"Uhhhh . . . huh," Sam said neutrally.

Dean appeared shortly, toweling his hair and looking somewhat more human. He dropped the towel on the floor, much to Sam's annoyance, then took a seat at the table and accepted the Styrofoam platter of pancakes offered. He paused only when he saw Shawn eat a chunk of pineapple. A glance between the lid and his brother's breakfast and he smiled.

"Did he propose to you, too?" he asked with a grin, smothering his pancakes in syrup.

Sam frowned and Shawn chuckled, almost spraying coffee before he managed to pinch his lips tightly enough.

"What?" Sam asked in confusion, eyes darting between the two other men.

"Shawn here has a tiny obsession with pineapple," Dean explained.

"I am a fan of delicious flavor," Shawn corrected. "As is any _sane_ human being." He shot a look at Sam that made Dean laugh.

Sam looked confused so Dean explained for both of them, waving his fork as he did so. "Sammy's never liked pineapple." At Shawn's look of shock he shrugged, face saying, '_I know. Crazy_.'

"Shawn here, proposed marriage to me when I bought him a Hawaiian hamburger in Iowa."

Shawn held up a finger. "I said if you were a _girl_ I'd propose marriage."

"Close enough," Dean said with a dismissive wave of his fork that ended with the bite of pancake in his mouth. "You want me. Everyone does," he added with a long-suffering sigh.

Sam was the one fighting to keep his coffee in this time.

"That's your own damn fault," Shawn said, pointing. "It's all that roguish charm and the serious knight in shining armor complex you've got going there. How do you expect anyone to resist?"

Dean grinned and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. "I don't. Resistance is futile."

Sam shook his head and finished his breakfast, well aware he'd fallen into the background as the two of them bantered back and forth.

Not that he minded the way they seemed to have forgotten he was there. It was nice to see this. Nice to know that, despite all his claims to the contrary and how he didn't need normal or friends, Dean was capable of making a friend who wasn't a fellow hunter. Or female for that matter.

Breakfast was finished and Shawn went to shower. Sam jumped on the chance to tell Dean about what he'd found in the way of a new job, breaking out his laptop and bringing up his browser window.

"Toledo, Ohio. Man died unexpectedly."

Dean's eyebrows arched as he balled up dirty clothes and stuffed them in his duffel. They'd need a laundry stop soon, he mentally noted.

"And? I know it's been a while for you, Sam, but you do know there's a little more criteria for a job than just a single unexpected death, right? I mean, hell, if that was it, we might as well open a chain of crematoriums and call it good. Creepy, but good."

"Well according to his daughter, his eyes were bleeding. Profusely."

Dean's lips turned down as he considered that. Still not a bona fide indicator of their kind of thing, but definitely on the weird side of things. "Toledo, huh? Not too far away. Eh, we can check it out, I guess."

Shawn reappeared as Sam closed the lid on his laptop, sliding it into its bag.

"You guys heading out already?"

Dean smiled. "Duty calls. Damsels in distress await the arrival of their knight in shining armor."

Shawn chuckled and nodded. "Have fun storming the castle."

Dean laughed outright at that as he picked his bag up and slung it over his shoulder, taking the weapons duffel from Sam.

"Always do," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows to accompany his grin. He started to turn away, but only made it halfway before turning back with a snap of his fingers. "Hey, you don't happen to have a holocaust cloak on you, do you?"

Shawn's grin widened when he realized his movie reference had not been missed. And not only that, but Dean was willing to play along. "Sorry. I had one, but the Dread Pirate Roberts stole it."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time. Come on, Brute Squad."

Sam rolled his eyes and followed his brother out to the car, Shawn trailing them as far as the door.

"Dude, when have you ever seen _The Princes Bride_?" Sam asked as they loaded up the trunk.

"When have you?" Dean shot back.

"Jess," was the quick, quiet response, before his gaze dropped to the ground.

Dean frowned, eyes narrowed as he stared at his brother, then he quirked a smile. "Her name was Deborah. But she wanted me to call her Buttercup. And she _really_ wanted to see the Dread Pirate Roberts' booty."

Sam rolled his eyes and put up a hand, but the brief flash of heartache was gone. "And that's officially way more information than I needed, thanks."

Dean grinned and winked at Shawn who was snickering.

"See you round, Miracle Max," Dean called as he climbed in with a wave.

"Adiós, Westley," Shawn said with a return wave. He nodded at Sam. "Fezzik."

Sam shook his head but waved, then climbed into the car.

Shawn watched them go and then went back inside and shut the door, wondering how far away the nearest Blockbuster was and if they rented VCRs or DVD players.

* * *

Yeah, Dean's turn to be drunk this time. That keeps happening when the boys get together. I hope it's not a trend in the series . . . I'm not trying to advocate alcoholism or anything. I swear. -_-;

Review, please and thanks!


	3. Three: Drunk DialAPsychic

Okay, I'm officially messing with the timeline now.

Ish.

Not enough to make it AU though. Just shuffling a few things on the calendar to accommodate the time spans of the shows and add some humor and drama to the whole shebang. :D

So, _Bugs_ took place at the Spring Equinox according to what the boys discuss in the show. Buuuuuuuut I need it to be in the fall along with _Home_ and _Asylum_ so that Shawn is still in Thailand when that all goes down. So we're going to pretend it was the Fall Equinox since the whole 'sun and the moon share the day equally' thing is still true. For the purposes of weather, we're pretending that it's one hell of an Indian Summer. :D

(Besides, I'm not sure I buy weather that nice in Oklahoma in March anyway. ;D)

So where do we stand episode wise?

**TIMELINE MARKER:**

Psych: Thailand on Shawn's resume. Still a few months out from the Pilot. But we're getting closer! :D

SPN: We jumped ahead again. If this was poorly-written slash or the Babysitter's Club they might be calling each other every day by now. Since it's neither, they're still working up to a more regular communications routine. :D So we're at _Asylum_. Because Sam hasn't had a chance to get drunk yet and if this won't do it, nothing will. :D

(THIS IS THE LAST DRUNK!FIC FOR A WHILE. I SWEAR. -_-;)

* * *

**PATTAYA, THAILAND**

Shawn couldn't have possibly heard his phone ring. He barely felt it vibrate with the way the bass beat was thrumming through his bones. But he plugged an ear and gamely tried to hear his caller.

"Yello."

He could almost hear the voice on the other end and moved away from the speakers and into a sort of hallway leading into the back area of the bar to improve his chances, ignoring the other patrons and employees there.

"Hello?" he tried again.

"_Wake me up . . . when September ends . . ."_

The softly singing voice wasn't making any sense.

And who was calling to serenade him anyway? Certainly not Gus. And most everyone he knew here in Thailand was in the bar, drinking and dancing and otherwise partying.

"Hello?"

Sounds of fumbling followed, then, _"Shhhawn?"_

It took Shawn a moment to recognize the voice, an impressive feat actually since he'd only met the owner of it once before and it had been quite sober last time.

"Sam?"

"_Heeey, Shawn. What're you doing in my phone?"_

"Sam, buddy, are you drunk, dude?"

A giggled snort came over the line. "_I think so. Shhhthbphhh. Don't tell, Dean, 'kay?"_

"Are you okay?"

A sad sigh. _"No. This month sucked." _ He snorted. _"It sucked _balls_."_ He giggled again.

Shawn's eyebrows rose and he nodded. "Okay. Can you give me a second, Sam?"

"_Sure."_ And then Sam started counting. _ "One Hippopoppotus. One Hippomopapus. Hippa . . . Hippopoma . . . One thingy. Two thingy. Three thingy."_

Shawn was torn between laughing and rolling his eyes, but he just covered his phone mic and headed back to his group. Letting his companions know he was heading outside for a moment, he dove into the crowd, tacking against the current for the exit.

Finally he made it, the cool night air refreshing as he stepped away from the bass beat pounding out through the doors.

"Sam?" he said, bringing the phone back to his ear. "You still there?"

"_Nine thingy. Ten thingy." _ There was a pause. _"What comes after ten thingy?"_

"Eleven thingy," Shawn said. "But you can stop counting now. Dude, what's going on? Are you and Dean okay?"

"_No. Dean's 'sleep. Gave him the good drugs 'cause it hurts. Salt hurts, Shawn. D'you know that? Won't kill ya. But it hurts like a bitch."_

Aaaaaaand Shawn was officially totally lost.

"Sam, where are you?"

"_Indiana."_

"Still?" Shawn asked. He'd last seen the Winchester brothers in the capital of the Hoosier state, but that had been almost two months ago. And they had been headed out of town at the time. "Wait, weren't you headed for Ohio?"

"_Yup. Ohio. Bloody Mary."_ Another snort. _"Psycho bitch. Tried to blow my eyeballs up."_

"Uh huh," Shawn said, frowning.

"_And then we went after the Hook Man. Like in the stories? And we melted him. No! Wait . . . There'as something in between . . ."_

"And now you're back in Indiana?

"_SAINT LOUIS. AND BUGS. But not in Saint Louis. Saint Louis was icky. But not bug icky. Slimy icky. No, wait, bugs came after . . ."_

"You're in Saint Louis?"

"_No. Becky was though. And Zack. They're nice. Not killers. Not like us."_

A faint sloshing sound and then a clack that was probably Sam topping off the alcohol in his system.

"_We're Winchesters. Like the rifle. An' like the rifle we kill."_ Confusion drifted into the tones. _"But we don' use rifles. Shawn, why don' we use rifles?"_

"Uhhhhh," Shawn said, so completely lost he was having trouble figuring out what the question even was.

Sam didn't seem that concerned though, because he moved on without an answer.

"_When I shot him, I used a shotgun. And a handgun. But no rifleguns. Why isn't it called a riflegun?"_

Shawn finally caught what seemed to be a salient point—one that had him a little worried to be honest.

"Who did you shoot, Sam?"

The answer was so soft that Shawn barely heard it. But he did and it had him dropping to sit down on the curb.

"_Dean."_

A single word, laced with so much guilt and regret it was almost dripping out of Shawn's phone.

"You shot _Dean_? Is he okay, Sam?"

There was a long pause and Shawn felt his pulse speeding up as he shot to his feet again, pacing a few steps back and forth, hand running nervously through his hair.

"Sam! Is Dean okay?"

How fast could he get a flight out of here? And would Sam stay put that long?

"_He's fine. Told ya. Salt won't kill ya, it just hurts like a bitch."_

Shawn paused. "You shot him with salt?"

"_Yup. Shotgun full of salt. Ruined his shirt. And used up all the gauze in the first aid kit. But the handgun was empty so . . . that's okay. I mean, it's not _okay_, but it's okay."_

Shawn stood in the cool night and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.

Granted he hadn't spent _that_ much time with the Winchesters. And he had picked up on some unresolved issues between the brothers. But he hadn't thought it bad enough for them to be shooting each other. Even if it wasn't fatally so.

"Sam, why did you shoot Dean?"

There wasn't an immediate answer, but Shawn waited.

When Sam finally spoke in a whisper it was, again, guilt ridden and full of remorse. _"Because I was so angry. He said it wasn't my fault, that it was Ellicott, but it _was_ my fault, Shawn. Ellicott . . . he didn't make me mad. He just mad my mad bigger. Stronger. But it was already there. 'S my fault."_

Oh holy hell.

Was Sam _crying_?

Shit. Where was Dean? Shawn really thought this was something Dean should be handling, being the big brother and all.

Shawn was an only child, but he'd seen plenty of siblings in his lifetime. He even had memories of a few times when Gus' older brother had _not_ been a jerk and actually acted like the big brothers you heard about in stories and saw in movies. The protector and defender of his younger siblings.

Whatever issues they had going—and what siblings didn't have issues?—Shawn had sensed very clearly that Dean was the epitome of a big brother protector and defender to Sam.

So why the hell was Shawn being asked to play this role tonight?

Then again, shooting someone probably didn't encourage them to act with sibling care and concern.

With a sigh Shawn rubbed a hand over his face.

"Okay," he said, sitting down on the curb again. "Who is Ellicott?"

The curb outside of a bar along Walking Street in Pattaya, Thailand, wasn't the most comfortable place for a story, but Shawn knew better than to go wandering around by himself when he was distracted by a phone call. The locals were generally very friendly toward Americans, but there were always those in a club district who would rather make a fast buck and leave an unconscious—or dead—body behind, no matter what city in the world it was.

So he settled himself in and listened to a tale that belonged around a campfire.

He still didn't believe in ghosts, but after his first encounter with Dean and a real life werewolf in Iowa, he was a little more open to the possibility that the two of them had been fighting _something_ in the abandoned Roosevelt Asylum.

Something that had tried very hard to use the younger Winchester to kill the older.

Those kind of sibling squabbles usually ended up in therapy or on Jerry Springer. Shawn briefly pondered which would be more likely for the two brothers and which would be more healthy. He decided both should probably be avoided.

Sam wound his story down, insisting he didn't hate his brother but he was sure his brother hated him.

"_I don' blame him, either,"_ Sam said. _"I mean . . . How could I_ shoot_ him?_ _He's . . . He'd do anything for me. How-"_

The background noises that had been there but hard to distinguish were now very audible in the silence. It was no surprise, though that Sam was in a bar if he was drunk. Although . . . Shawn checked his watch. It was a little early in the day for drinking in Indiana.

Only increasingly rapid and labored breaths came from Sam.

Shawn wondered if he was going to puke or start sobbing.

Until the faint, _"Sammy?"_

Ooooh. Neither. Looks like Dean wasn't sleeping as soundly as Sam imagined.

"_I have to g-"_

"_Who're you talking to?"_

"_No one!" _Sam protested and tried to hang up, but his obviously uncoordinated fingers only mashed the number keys filling Shawn's ear with a chorus of tonal squawks until the scuffling sounds ended and the noises stopped.

"Sam?"

"_Hello?"_ Dean's voice came through, loud and clear.

"Dean."

"_Shawn?"_

"Hey. How . . . uh . . . how are you doing?" Shawn asked, then immediately winced. _Dumb question, Spencer,_ he thought. _The man was shot with rock salt pellets at point blank range in the chest. How the hell would you be?_ "I mean," he tried to correct, but Dean cut him off.

"_Sorry to bother you, Shawn. Sammy's had a little too much to drink. Time to head back to the hotel and fish out some handcuffs, I think."_

Shawn couldn't help the laugh, "Dude, I don't want to hear about-"

"_Shaddup,"_ Dean said, but it was without any real heat. _"Not like that, you perv. Damn. And Sammy says my mind is stuck in the gutter."_

"That's because it is."

"_Yeah, well, a man has to have a hobby."_

Shawn chuckled. "So you guys are okay? Sam said you've had a rough month or two."

Dean blew out a breath. _"We're Winchesters. We've been having a rough decade or two. But yeah, we're okay."_

"Yeah." Shawn hesitated, then decided to just say it because . . . he didn't really know why. "Anything you want to, uh, talk about?"

There was a pause.

"_Dude, is Sam rubbing off on you?"_

"What? Why?"

"_Man, chick flick moments are so not cool. I expected you to understand that. Samantha here doesn't, but he's always been a big girl. Then again, you did keep starting them in Iowa . . ."_

Shawn chuckled. "Dude, that was you who kept starting them. Anyway, I just . . . you know . . . my mom's a psychologist. It sort of . . ." He shrugged, knowing perfectly well it was unseen. "Anyway, I was going to call you when Sam finally passed out to let you know where he was, but I guess you found him so-"

"_Shawn?"_ The quiet word cut into the developing babble.

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"_Thanks, man. For letting him talk your ear off and, uh, you know, stuff."_

Shawn smiled. "No problem, dude," he said, hearing the real message loud and clear from Big Brother. _Thanks for watching out for him until I found him again._

"_Hey, where are you right now?"_

"Thailand," Shawn said, leaning back a little and smiling at some girls walking past. They broke into giggles and smiled back, but kept walking.

"_Thailand? Seriously? How the hell did you end up there?"_

Shawn shrugged. "It was this thing teaching English and there was this girl and it sounded like fun and I thought, why not? Never been to another country except for Mexico and some of the Caribbean Islands. And Brazil. Great parties there, by the way."

"_Wow."_

"Yeah. But it's ending here soon and I'll probably head back to California. I miss El Pollo Loco," he said with just the right touch of wistfulness to spark a burst of laughter from Dean.

Mission accomplished. He smiled.

"I'll let you get back to tending to Sam. His huge ass can't be easy to haul back to a motel when it's not soaked in whiskey."

"_Sam's more of a bourbon kinda guy. Or tequila. But only when he's already got a bit of bourbon in him. Anyway, our door is only fifty feet from the bar so it's not so bad. But yeah, it ain't gonna be fun."_

"Well good luck. And maybe I'll see you on the road again soon."

"_Maybe. Later, dude. I got a Sasquatch to wrangle."_

"Later, Dean."

He ended the call and tucked his phone back in his pocket, then stood.

The teaching thing was actually through the end of the year, but he was feeling the urge to move on and he hadn't been entirely kidding about missing El Pollo Loco. The food here was _awesome_ but you just couldn't get a decent Pollo Asado. Not to mention anything resembling a churro.

Plus, he missed his bike. Everyone had one here—well, a moped, not a full fledged motorcycle, but it was close enough to be making him homesick.

But that was for tomorrow, he thought as he went back inside and located his friends, accepting a drink.

Tossing the shot back and joining in the triumphant cheer, he set his mind back into party mode, filing the Winchester brothers away for later contemplation.

Tonight was his last night in Thailand and he intended to have some fun.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	4. Four: Can't Escape

Remember how we screwed with the time/space continuum last chapter? Weeeeeeell, we're going to do it one more time. :D

Now we're going to pretend that there was more than a day between _Asylum_ and _Scarecrow_! WHEE PRETENDING! *yayhands*

(Which is totally possible since John's call sending them off to Burkittsville came in the early hours of the day, but they don't actually_ specifically_ say it was the NEXT day after they torched Ellicott's ass. Plus, even if it won't kill you, getting shot in the chest at point-blank range with salt has to hurt like a bitch. Layers of clothing or not there had to be some cutting of skin and bleeding involved. Rock salt is sharp! =O And that's not gonna magically heal overnight. So Dean needed some time to recover. And maybe they had another hunt or two in between. Whatever floats your boat. :D Either way, we're putting some space in there between the episodes.)

Thus, we're going to pretend there was a time jump of . . . ohhh . . . four or five months or so? Which, actually, technically fixes what we did with _Asylum_ and the other episodes before it, because it puts _Scarecrow_ back on a canonical time frame of early April. :D

This _really_ shouldn't make THAT much of a difference in things, storyline wise. In fact, most of you probably have no freaking idea what I'm talking about as far as time references go. (Hell, I didn't until I watched the damn episodes again to refresh my memory. And even then I barely caught them.)

I just wanted any canon nitpickers out there to know why I'm ignoring some of the little calendar hints and such they drop in the show.

**TIMELINE MARKER:**

Psych: Nope. Not the Pilot yet. Try 'back in California, but not quite in Santa Barbara yet'. He's heading back soon, though, I promise. Almost there. :D

SPN: Right smack dab in the middle of _Scarecrow_. In fact, the first few lines are pulled right out of the episode. I just extended the scene with Dean to plug Shawn into the equation. :D The second chunk would be somewhere around the end of the episode, perhaps just a bit after the credits roll.

* * *

"Sam, you were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life."

Dean could practically hear the disbelieving smile that was no doubt twisting Sam's lips right now. _"You serious?"_

"You've always known what you want. And you go after it." His own lips twisted in a semblance of a grin. "You stand up to Dad and you always have. Hell, I wish I . . ."

He pressed his lips together, squelching that though before it could finish escaping. It wouldn't bring anything but trouble. Especially right now.

"Anyway. I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy."

Dean waited for a response, but apparently the declaration took Sam by surprise, momentarily short circuiting his ability to speak.

A little flare of anger burst into life inside Dean at that. Didn't Sam know that already? He doubted that their Dad was proud of him, sure. Dean didn't like it, but he could see where Sam got that notion as bull-headed as he had been in his teens.

But how could Sam not know that Dean was proud as hell of what his baby brother had accomplished in his life? Even if he didn't always agree with it.

"_I don't even know what to say,"_ Sam finally admitted.

Well that answered that. For a college boy he sure could be a damn idiot at times. And right now was not the time to tell him that if Dean ever wanted to speak to him again.

"Say you'll take care of yourself," Dean offered instead.

"_I will,"_ Sam promised.

Dean sniffed, hoping Sam couldn't hear it and cursing the fact that he was acting like a damn girl. He needed to end this phone call before he broke down like a hormonal pregnant chick and begged for Sam to come back.

He actually would have preferred to keep talking, to keep that connection with his brother, but he knew that right now was not a good time if he wanted to retain any shred of masculinity.

And besides, this was better than last time, right? They were still talking. As long as they were still talking, still in each other's lives, still a family, Dean could handle the rest of it.

"Call me when you find Dad," he said, praying Sam read that for the 'end of conversation' cue that it was.

"_Okay. Bye, Dean."_

Dean closed his phone and sniffed again, valiantly trying to replace his badass mask over the damn girl hiding in his brain. Fuck, it was like he was on Oprah or something.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth for several minutes until the urge to bawl like it was _that_ time of the month passed.

One last sniff and a roll of his head to crack the vertebrae in his neck and he felt better. More like a man in charge of his damn emotions and less like he needed to pop his fly and check that he still had a set of balls down there.

He tried to think about what his game plan for when he got to town was, but even with the Lifetime moment over he wasn't quite able to stop worrying about Sammy.

"Dammit," he cursed, pulling off the road and gripping the steering wheel. "Come on, Winchester. He's twenty-two years old. You trained him and Dad trained him. He survived two years by himself." His brows popped up as his logical side reared its handsome but annoying head. "Two years where he wasn't hunting anything more dangerous than a co-ed, granted, but still. He can handle this." He scowled. "Get your head in the damn game."

He listened to the rumble of his baby's engine, briefly noted the mileage and scribbled a mental post-it that he needed to check her oil when he got a chance, then sighed.

He picked up his phone, intending to call his father, when he paused and let the hand fall again.

Dad was gonna be fucking pissed. In the way that a hurricane was kinda windy and the ocean was sorta wet.

The question was, would he be _more_ pissed if Dean called him and gave him a head's up or if Dean _didn't_ call him to warn him Sam was headed his way?

Dean snorted. Hell, he was going to be pissed either way. The only real difference was that if Dean called, he'd get his ass chewing before Sam did. If he didn't call he'd still get the ass chewing, but only after Sam had been thoroughly reamed out.

Assuming, of course, Sam that could actually _find_ their dad in Sacramento.

Which Dean seriously doubted.

Sam was an expert at research—thus the affectionate if somewhat derogatory nickname of 'geek boy' Dean had bestowed upon him. But John Winchester had _taught_ Sam how to research.

He'd taught Dean too, but books and microfiche just didn't get his blood pumping like it did Sam's.

Either way, John knew all of Sam's tricks. Well, most of them anyway. Sam had, no doubt, learned a few new ones at Stanford. Just not anything good enough to help him find a former Marine who had spent twenty-two years learning the fine art of evasion under the pressure of local and federal law enforcement.

No, the odds of Sam actually finding Dad were about as high as Dean spontaneously developing his own Shining.

Which meant that Sam would be all alone out there. Alone and pissed.

Oh yeah, Dean thought with a wry snort, that was a recipe for good things to happen all right.

All of this left Dean with a conundrum.

He had to stay and finish the job. No way around that. It was a time sensitive thing and he wasn't going to let another couple die just because he had a headstrong little brother and Houdini for a father.

Dean could always head out to California when the job was done, but it was probably going to take at least another day or two to hunt this son of a bitch down and figure out a way to toast its ass.

And it would take a day or two for Sam to get to Sacramento, sure, but they were both traveling by land-bound vehicle and even if he pushed the speed limits, there was no way he could beat Sam to the west coast unless he left now.

Which left his brother's lanky ass roaming around for a day, maybe two, by himself.

Sam could probably handle that, really. And it might do him some good, flying solo for a little while. Testing his wings and all that shit.

But there was supposed to be a demon—_the_ demon—running around town and Sam just might get so caught up in his research that he forgot to watch his ass and got himself possessed. Or worse.

Yeah, Dean wasn't getting any happy feelings about that whole idea.

What he needed was a babysitter for his wayward sibling. Someone who could just . . . keep an eye out for trouble so when Sam got lost in the stacks he wouldn't _literally_ get lost in the stacks and never come out again.

Unfortunately, Dean didn't know anyone in California that he trusted with the life of his-

He frowned in thought.

Hold on.

He picked up his phone and scrolled down his contact list, past Sam's, then stopped.

Shawn was not a hunter. Not in any sense of the word.

But he knew his way around a gun. And he knew there were things that went bump in the night. And he had a sharp eye.

Dean thought of the way Shawn had picked up on his fear of flying back in Indianapolis based on wet cuffs and barely shaking hands. Sam had lived in his back pocket for the better part of two decades and had never picked up on that.

A damn sharp eye.

It was only a day or two. Surely Shawn could handle acting as lookout for an over-sized geek for a day or two. Especially if he got a crash course in hunting.

Making up his mind, Dean pressed the send button and lifted the phone to his ear.

Now the only question was, was he anywhere near California?

Three rings and Dean started tapping the steering wheel with his free hand, hoping that Shawn wasn't still in Thailand or Australia or friggin' Europe for that matter.

It flipped to voice mail and Dean sighed and started to punch the phone off when he got the beep of an incoming on his call waiting. Pulling back, he saw it was Shawn.

"'Bout damn time," he muttered and punched the button to accept. "Dude, where are you?"

"_And a good morning to you too, De-an,"_ a sleepy voice responded, breaking his name on a yawn.

Dean glanced at the clock. "It's not morning where I'm at, princess. What timezone are you in?"

"_Uhhh, Pacific Standard Time?"_

Good, back in the US. Or . . . possibly parts of Canada. Did PST include any parts of South America? Dean really hoped it was the US.

"Yeah, well, newsflash, it ain't morning there either."

"_Says you,"_ Shawn muttered. Then he sighed as if resigned to the fact that he was awake. _"So,"_ he said in a voice that was only slightly forced cheerfulness, _"what's new in the world of the Winchesters?"_

"All kinds of excitement going on here. I'm in Indiana, hunting a pagan god right now."

"_A pagan . . . _god?" Shawn asked, sounding just a bit more awake than he did even a few moments ago. _"Can you kill those?"_

"Dunno," Dean said honestly. "But most pagan gods and goddesses aren't from around these parts, if you know what I mean. Oughta be able to at least send it home to wherever the hell its nature-loving ass came from. Then it's not my problem anymore. My hunting grounds don't include other continents. That requires a plane. Or a boat. I don't really do boats either. Not to mention there's customs and I don't exactly have a passport." Or a supposedly-dead serial killer's face that wouldn't throw up all kinds of red flags if he were seen traversing the country's borders.

"_Uh huh. Good to know."_ Then Shawn seemed to pick up on Dean's usage of the singular pronouns and his distinct lack of mentioning Sam. "_Is Sam there?"_

Dean grimaced. "Not exactly. We got a call from our Dad pointing us this way. Sam, uh . . ." How to explain the relationship between the youngest and oldest of the Winchesters in less than a year's worth of talking non-stop?

But Shawn seemed to know already. _"Yeah, I bet that went over well. But he ditched you? Dude, is he still upset over that asylum thing when he shot you?"_

Oh joy, Dean thought sourly. More happy memories. Maybe calling Shawn wasn't the best idea.

Although, he had a point. Was Sam still moping over that whole mess? Had that somehow contributed to this whole emo bitchfest of his? Or was it that the things he said under Ellicott's influence were more true than he had been willing to admit at the time?

There were some definite similarities in the whole 'you always follow Dad's orders like an idiot, but I have a brain in my own skull that I can use' kind of thing he'd spouted now and then.

Gahhh.

Dean stifled a sigh and pushed that mess of doubts away for later contemplation. Or, you know, _never_.

"I think this is more about the fact that I understand the concept of an 'order' and Sam has never been what you'd call 'soldier material'. Like most little brothers, he's not so fond of doing what he's told, you know?"

"_Not everybody is cut out to be a follower, Dean. Some people just gotta find their own way in life,"_ Shawn pointed out.

Yeah, definitely rethinking the wisdom of calling Shawn. He might be able to watch Sam's ass for two days and he might also put more ideas in that kid's head about pursuing his own dreams in that time.

And even though Dean was proud as hell that his little brother knew what he wanted and fought for it . . . this life just wasn't something you could easily escape. The sooner Sam learned that the better. They at least had to find the demon and send its ass back to hell before Sam could ever hope to start looking for that white picket fence.

If it was even out there to be found by someone with the last name of Winchester.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Anyway, I'm staying here and finishing this hunt and Sam is headed out to Sacramento to see if he can find our dad. Unlikely, but the kid's always had high ambitions."

"_Sacramento? Dude, I'm in Roseville, like, half an hour away."_

"Really?" Good news. Now to see if he wanted a part-time job for the weekend . . .

"_Yeah!"_ There was a pause then, _"Would you like me to, uh, check on him?" _Shawn asked tentatively.

Shawn was either psychic or he already knew Dean too well. Dean really hoped it was the latter. He didn't need any more freaky spoon-benders in his life.

But back to the point at hand. Dean wanted to shrug off the suggestion, pretend like it was no big deal. But it was a pretty big deal to ask someone to watch out for demons. Especially powerful ones like this son of a bitch had to be.

"Actually, uh, I was wondering if you would mind playing babysitter for a few days. I'm heading out there as soon as I'm done here, but Sam couldn't wait and this hunt sort of has to happen now and-"

"_No problem, dude."_

Dean grimaced. "You might want to hold on a second before you go agreeing so quickly."

"_Why?"_ Shawn asked warily.

"Well," Dean said, scratching his head, "there's a very specific reason he's going to Sacramento. See, my dad's been hunting the thing that killed our mom, and he's got a lead on it."

"_And it's in Sacramento? What is it?"_

"I don't know if it's in Sacramento actually. I just know that's where Dad was when he called. He could be halfway to Poughkeepsie, New York, for all I know. He doesn't exactly linger unnecessarily in places, ya know?"

"_But he might be here. Hunting the . . . whatever it is."_

"Demon," Dean finally clarified. "It's a demon."

"_Like in Indianapolis?"_

"Uhh, sort of. Only, not really."

"_Dude, spit it out. What aren't you telling me?"_

Dean sighed. "Look, we don't know much about this thing. At least I don't. Hell, I didn't even know it was a demon until, like, yesterday. But whatever it is, it's been running around for twenty-two years and dad's had one helluva time tracking it down—and my dad's one of the best damn hunters I've ever met, so, whatever it is, it's not something you want to mess with unless you know what you're doing."

"_And you're afraid Sam might try to take it on himself if he finds a lead?"_

"Well it did kill Jessica and that's about the only reason he got back into hunting. He's damn determined to kill this thing or go down fighting. Or it might come after his ass on its own if it finds out he's in town. I don't know. All I know is that the odds are not in his favor if he's left unsupervised."

Dean left out the part about Sam's special nature and how it made him a target for anything and everything supernatural. The only thing Dean as worried about right now was the demon and his vengeance-blinded little brother.

"But I don't want either of you getting killed before I can get there. So, while I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye on Sammy and make sure he eats his vegetables and washes behind his ears until I can stop this pagan bastard and get out there to collect him, I will totally understand if you want to take this as a warning and get the hell out of Dodge."

Long seconds passed while Shawn considered what he'd been told and Dean bit his tongue and let him do so in peace. He couldn't push this. Not on Shawn.

"_Do you think it's _likely_ this demon or whatever will come after Sam?"_

Damn. Dean had to give Shawn credit for not hanging up and heading for Canada as fast as his bike could take him there. Not that he'd agreed to stay, but he hadn't cut and run yet. That earned him points in Dean's book.

And it earned him an honest answer.

"I don't know, man. Like I said, I don't know a whole helluva lot about this thing."

A slow exhale of breath followed, which, ironically, had Dean holding his breath in.

"_How do you fight a demon?"_

Dean exhaled, a grin spreading across his face. Hell, yes. Shawn had a set of brass ones on him. If not tempered-freaking-steel.

"You don't," he said out loud. "You do your best not to be noticed and if that fails you hide in a motel room and wait for me to show up."

"_And what's to stop the demon from coming into said motel room? Salt, right?"_

"That's a start. Add some protective sigils on the doors and windows and keep holy water handy and you should be good to go. Well, for a little while. Long enough for the cavalry to show up anyway." He really hoped this didn't end up with him on another plane.

"_Okay, how do you recognize a demon? And where do I find what these sigil thingies look like?"_

"You got access to a computer?"

"_I'm sure I can find one at the library or an Internet café."_

"How about an e-mail address?"

"_Yeah."_

"Good. Give it to me."

He dug out a scrap of paper and a pen from the glove compartment, then scribbled down what Shawn said.

"Seriously? That's your email address?"

"_Well, apparently __'the_eighties_is_the_best_decade_of_all_time_and_pineapple_is_the_only_food_worth_eating'_ is too long for Hotmail and Yahoo, and I don't believe in selling my soul, so I don't know if it would work for AOL. Everything else was taken. This was my sole surviving runner-up."

Dean cleared his throat and gave a shake of his head. "Yeah, uh, okay. I'll, uh, send you links to some sites that have pictures of the sigils you'll need. Find an art store and get a grease pencil. It'll write on anything and it doesn't come off easily. And they don't have to be works of art, but try to get 'em as close as you can. The little squiggles and stuff can be important some times."

"_Little squiggles are important. Got it."_

"You can get salt at any grocery store, but check the health food stores. Sometimes it's cheaper there. Don't go to a pet store. They sell it in bulk for the fish tanks, but it's expensive as hell. You don't need any special kind, table salt will work just fine. And make sure you get a lot of it. Line the doors, windows—any entry into the room. Make sure it's unbroken, wall to wall. Sammy'll know most of this, I'm just telling you so you can make sure he doesn't miss anything." Or purposely leave it out.

Dean thought about asking if Shawn could get a hold of a gun, but unless he could also get his hands on consecrated iron bullets that wouldn't do him much good. Hell, even then it wasn't all that effective against a demon. And hopefully things wouldn't get to the point where he'd actually need any weapons.

But a little holy water never went amiss when dealing with hellspawn.

"Find a church, something Catholic or Anglican. Lot of times there's a font or stoup just inside the doors where you can fill up a bottle or two to take home. Get lots of it. Never can have too much holy water. Go to a couple of churches if you have to."

"_Grease pencil, lots of salt, case of holy water, extra underwear, got it."_

Dean grinned. Shawn could maintain a sense of humor. That was good. People who could keep a sense of humor were less likely to freak out and end up dead.

"Those are the easy parts. The real problem is going to be keeping Sam from ditching you. You may not want to tell him I sent you. He probably wouldn't take that very well."

Shawn snorted. _"Dude, I'm not an idiot. He may be your little brother, but he's still a freakin' giant. And I don't feel like being bench-pressed like some gym bunny. He won't even know you called. Trust me._"

"I do," Dean said, then winced at the sincere admission. Well if that wasn't girly as hell . . .

He coughed to break the silence that had fallen. "I don't expect you to stop him or distract him from his search or anything like that. He'll probably spend most of the time at the library buried in geek boy heaven. Just don't let him go after anything he may find. Stall him until I can get there."

"_Now that I can definitely handle. How's he getting here?"_

"Bus. Coming from Indiana. He leaves sometime tonight but it may be a day or two before he gets to you."

"_Okay. You said it might come after him . . . What's a demon look like? I'm assuming Angel and Buffy are bad sources for examples."_

Dean laughed. "Yeah. They're a little more subtle than Hollywood's best makeup artists. A lot more subtle, actually, since they don't have their own bodies. They just possess humans."

"_So it could be anyone? Fun."_

"Yeah, well, if they made it easy for us, my job would be boring. But there are ways to tell. They'll react to the name of God in Latin. That's 'Christo' by the way. They can't cross salt lines. They steam when you hit them with Holy Water. And they can't enter sacred ground like churches."

"_And if I don't have any salt handy to draw a line and block them out and I'm not near any churches?"_

"First, always carry salt and holy water. Forget your Mastercard, but don't leave home without those. And if you do spot a demon? No matter what you have on you run like hell to the nearest steeple and get your ass inside. Don't be a hero. Just be alive when I get there."

"_Okay!"_ Shawn said. _"I think I got it."_ He waited a beat then added, _"Is it too late to change my mind?"_

Dean was _pretty_ sure he was joking so he said, "Yup."

"_Huh. Well all right. I'm always up for new experiences. But dude, if a demon comes after my ass you better believe you're buying the drinks this time."_

Dean laughed. "Hey man, whether or not a demon comes after your ass, if you can keep Sam out of trouble I'll buy you all the pineapple you can eat, dude."

Silence followed.

"_That's a lot of pineapple," _Shawn finally said._ "I hope your credit cards are good."_

"They are." Good, if not his anyway. "Hey, thanks for doing this, man. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. I'll wrap this up as fast as I can and head out your way soon as it's over."

"_No problem, dude. You want a call when he gets in safely?"_

Dean hesitated, not wanting to seem like _too_ much of a worry wart. But what the hell. As if Shawn didn't already know.

"Yeah, give me a call. Or a text. Either one is fine."

"_Will do. See you in a few days. Good luck with the, uh, pagan god thing."_

"Yeah. Thanks. Later, dude."

He snapped the phone shut and dropped it on the seat, turning on his signal and checking his mirrors. Not that there had been a lot of traffic on this road, but he wasn't going to risk his baby needlessly.

Pulling out he continued on his way to the college, hoping this job was an easy one and that he could be on his way to California before the day was over.

He snorted. Yeah. Like any job was every easy for a Winchester.

o.o

When Sam excused himself to go to the bathroom at lunch, Dean pulled out his phone and dialed Shawn's number. He didn't want Sam to know that he'd arranged a babysitter, but he needed to let Shawn know not to expect company.

"_Dean, what's up, dude? I was just heading out to the store for provisions._"

"Save your money, man. He changed his mind. He's still here with me."

"_Oh. Any particular reason?"_

Dean snorted. "Does the fact that he's a total girl and just as illogical count?"

Shawn laughed. _"There's a logic to girls, Dean. It's just not a secret any man on this planet knows."_

"Aw man. And here I thought you were going to say you knew what it was and could share with me."

"_Nope. Sorry. Hey, how did the thing with the pagan god go?"_

"It was the Nordic god of apple trees or some shit like that. Creepy little pagan-worshiping townsfolk. We burned the tree that came over from the Old Country and poofed his ass back to Norway or wherever the hell. He'll stop taking sacrifices in Indiana though, that's for sure."

"_Awesome. More fire for Pyro Boy. Bet you had fun._"

Dean thought back to being ambushed by a local Smokey, locked in the cellar, explaining to Emily that her aunt and uncle were crazy people who sacrificed unsuspecting couples to a Nordic god, and then being tied to a tree waiting for an evil scarecrow to rip his face off, only to watch it grab said crazy aunt and uncle and drag them off screaming into the trees.

Not anything he liked to have happen in a day, but being able to burn something had kind of made up for the bad.

"Yeah, I do love me a good bonfire," he said.

"_So now what? Got another job lined up?_"

"Not at the moment, why?"

"_Dude, come to California. It's April. You'd love it here in April."_

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"_Two words, Dean: Spring. Break. It's not Lauderdale, but, man, it's warm and we have beaches. That's all the excuse they need to flock here. Wearing very little if anything."_

Dean paused his perusal of the newspaper he'd picked up to give the offer some serious consideration. It would be nice to take some time off. A day or two of R&R to enjoy some female company and maybe play a few games of pool and poker. Where beautiful college girls went, dumb college boys followed and if they were spending their time in California, odds were they had money.

And since Dean knew Sam would never actually _party_ or _have fun_, heaven forbid, he could look around Sacramento and see if he could pick up Dad's trail or find any clues as to what Dad was hunting.

All around it sounded like a good plan.

Unless of course it was going to resurrect bad memories for his own former college boy brother, Dean thought as Sam came back his way.

"Yeah, maybe we will. Let me check with Sam. One sec."

"_Sure thing,"_ Shawn said.

"Who's that?" Sam asked as he sat down.

Dean swiveled the phone down away from his mouth.

"Dude, it's Shawn. He invited us out to California. We could check out Sacramento. Maybe pick up Dad's trail."

Sam's eyebrows arched. "You want to go chase down Dad? Even though he told us not to?"

Dean tilted his head to the side. "Maybe I think there's something to your theory of not always doing exactly what he says."

Sam's expression grew even more incredulous, a grin stretching across his face. "Yeah, right. You? The perfect soldier developing a sudden desire to be insubordinate? Not likely. Why do you _really_ want to go to California, Dean?"

He shrugged. Contrary to what Sam thought, Dean _didn't_ always believe in following his father's orders to the letter. He was just more selective than his brother when it came to choosing which ones to disobey. But he didn't have a deep-seated need to shatter all of his brother's misconceptions in one week so he let it go.

"Shawn says it's Spring Break season and the bikinis are out in full force."

Sam blinked and checked the date. "Really? Huh. It is that time of year, isn't it?"

"Yeah! Dude, what do you think the odds are we can find a hotel where they're filming some _Girls Gone Wild_ action?" Dean's grin widened, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. "Huh? Huh? Yeah? We might even be able to find you a girl or six!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "As outrageously fun as that sounds," he said dryly, "how about we head east to North Carolina?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "Dude if we're heading east, why not Florida? Isn't North Carolina kinda, well, _north_ of where we want to be for spring break?"

"Not if we're looking for a rawhead."

"I wasn't aware we were looking for a rawhead. And, dude, I do not want to see a rawhead in a bikini. Ugh." He shuddered with exaggerated effect.

"Cute, Dean. Thanks. And we are now," Sam said. He swiveled the computer around so Dean could see what he'd been searching while he ate. "Five kids have already gone missing and it's been two days since the last one. It's going to strike again and soon."

Dean rubbed at his eyes, feeling his enthusiasm for the coeds of California die a swift death. He hated cases with kids as the victims.

Lifting the phone back up he said, "You still there?"

_"Yeah, dude, what's up?"_

"Sorry, Shawn. Looks like we're going to have to take a rain check on the bikini-fest. We got a rawhead in the Carolinas that's just asking for a taser to fry its ass."

"_A rawhead? Dude, what the hell is that? A rogue hamburger zombie?"_

Dean chuckled. "Rogue hamburger zombie. Ah, that's good. No, it's, uh, an Irish boogeyman. Likes to snack on kids and that makes it a high priority for killin'."

"_Ugh. Yeah. Okay. Maybe another time. Go save the kids, you heroes you."_

"Maybe we'll head your way after we're done here. Rawheads aren't known for being real smart. Shouldn't take very long to fry this one."

"_Awesome. Still a couple of weeks left before the last of them head back to finish up the semester wherever. You got some time."_

"All right, well, I'll call when we're headed west."

"_Sweet. Talk to you later, dude."_

"Later." Dean ended the call and started cleaning up the remains of his fries, his burger long since dispatched to the depths of the bottomless pit known as his stomach.

"It's about a ten-hour drive to our destination," Sam said.

"Awesome," Dean said before slurping down the last of his Coke. "Then let's shag ass. We can make it there tonight if we drive straight through. We can find it, fry it, and be on our way to California and a whole state full of wild beach bunnies in their natural habitat by tomorrow night."

Sam just shook his head, though he was smiling.

"Nice to see your priorities are in order, Dean."

"Hey!" Dean said, affronted. "We're saving the kids and killing the bad guys first. And I'd think you'd want to make good time to California before Dad's trail goes cold."

Sam snorted and packed up his laptop while Dean polished off the rest of _his_ fries. Good thing he wasn't really hungry anymore anyway. "Dude, it's Dad. The trail probably went cold right about the time I traced the phone booth there."

"So you don't want to go?" Dean asked, opening his door and sliding behind the wheel.

"No," Sam countered, tossing his stuff in the back and then taking shotgun. "I want to go. But I'm not holding out much hope that we'll find anything there."

Dean grunted and braced an arm on the seat back to look out the rear window as he backed up. "Won't hurt to go look."

Sam shrugged. "Nope. After we take care of the rawhead."

Dean nodded and shifted into drive. "One rawhead, extra crispy, coming up."

* * *

I know I've been skipping a lot of episodes but NO WORRIES. I WILL BE COVERING _FAITH_. DUDE, HOW COULD I NOT? Srsly, I think it's like an unwritten rule that if you write SPN fic you _have _to do a _Faith_ tag.

Anyway, review, please and thanks. See you next time! :D


	5. Five: Undying Devotion

Okay, so you know how in the last chapter or two I tried help you guys out with the timeline between the shows and how it matched up with the calendar?

Right. Now I want you to take that carefully constructed timeline for the shows—both/either/or—and do you and me a favor: Chuck it out the nearest window.

I'll tell you what episodes we're at and you just pretend that they happened at the same time. Okay? :D Disregard any and all canon time markers. Unless it's a big one like some of the later season finales/premieres. But the episodes that aren't really time specific? Yeah. Ignore the canon timeline. I don't need the migraines from trying to bloody figure them out and you don't want the delays that said migraines would cause. Fair enough?

Good. :D

That being said . . .

**TIMELINE MARKER**

Psych: I promise--I really, _really_ promise--we WILL be getting to the Pilot soon. IT IS ON THE HORIZON. Maybe closer . . . But for now, we're still pre-series. :D

SPN: _Faith_. Yup. _FAITH_. This one jumps around a bit because I wanted Shawn in on this whole mess and not just a lead into the episode or flailing in the aftermath. Also, some of the stuff below (namely the part near the end with Sam and Dean) is again taken directly from the show. Like last time I chose to follow the brother that left the scene so I could plug in Shawn. :D

And I'll stop talking now and let you read. :D *shoos you towards the story*

* * *

"Chinese or pizza? Chinese? Or pizza?"

Shawn frowned, eyes sliding between the two fliers.

If only there was a way to have both . . . He'd tried that once and it hadn't worked, but maybe it was time to-

He glanced at the table, eyebrows rising, then dropped the two pamphlets, picking up the menu for the Mexican restaurant a block away.

Mmmmm. Carne Asada. Posole.

Ooh. Sopaipillas.

Sí, Mexican was sounding muy bueno indeed.

Eyes still scanning the menu he felt out the table, searching for his phone. Once he'd located it, he brought it up and glanced away just long enough to make sure it was on.

It chose that exact moment to ring.

He blinked, then grinned at the name on the screen.

Punching the button he leaned back, eyes returning to the menu.

"Hey, Sam. That zombie thing smarter than you expected? It's been a week, dude."

"_Hey, Shawn,"_ Sam said quietly.

Shawn sat forward, menu dropping to the floor, elbow coming to rest on the table.

"Dude, what's wrong?"

"_Wha- uh, what? How did-" _The attempted recovery was impressive, but not enough to be a sell.

"The last time you called me you sounded just like this. Only drunk. What happened? You didn't shoot Dean again did you?" Shawn asked joking. Well, _half-_joking.

There was a pause.

"_No. No, I didn't- I called you? Drunk? When?"_

Shawn manged to bite back the laugh at the bewildered segue. "Last fall. You were in Indiana after shooting Dean with rock salt at some haunted nut house in Illinois . . . Ring any bells?"

A soft, _"Huh,"_ drifted over the line. Then he cleared his throat. _"Anyway, uh, we won't, uh . . . we won't be making it to California this week. Or, um, anytime soon probably. I don't know. I just, I mean, maybe, but-"_

Shawn's smile faded, concern slipping into his tone. "Dude, what happened?"

Sam sighed, weighty and probably accompanied by a headache from the sound of it.

"_The rawhead. It _was _smarter than we thought. Took us two days just to locate it. And it took two more kids in that time._"

Shawn winced. "Ouch. That's . . . that's brutal, man."

"_Yeah. But we got them out okay. They're fine. Scared, but fine. But Dean . . . He wasn't so lucky."_

"It got him?" Shawn asked, briefly wondering if he wished he knew more and could see what was coming or grateful for his ignorance of what the hell Sam was talking about.

"_No. No, nothing like that. Well, I mean . . . not _exactly_ like that anyway . . . I was getting the kids out and he stayed down in the basement to kill it. He'd amped up these tasers because the first time we found it they weren't high enough voltage or something because all we did was piss it off. So he upped the voltage to 100,000 volts or so. But he missed with his and so he used mine and . . ." _The crescendoing babble died.

"_Idiot wasn't paying attention," _Sam muttered, sounding very weary and a little angry but mostly scared and not prepared for the shift of roles this accident had brought about._ "He's not the dumbass he pretends to be. He built an EMF meter out of an old Walkman, for fuck's sake. He _knows_ that you can't stand in water when you're shooting off electricity. But it- It cornered him, I guess, and he, I don't know, forgot or something. Wasn't paying attention,"_ he repeated sort of distractedly._ "Anyway, uh, when he zapped the rawhead he got shocked, too."_

Shawn swallowed. "Oh man. A hundred thousand volts? Sam, I mean . . . Is he okay? Or . . ." He didn't even want to think about the alternative.

Not that he was all THAT close to the Winchesters, but they were awesome still. From what he knew anyway. And Dean had saved his life which automatically earned bonus points in Shawn's book.

Granted, Dean had a dangerous job and this was one of the risks, of course, but . . . it just . . . it wasn't fair.

Not that life ever really was, but- He realized Sam was talking and had to mentally rewind to catch up.

"_-They say he's got maybe a month. At best. And he's pretending like he doesn't care, like it's _okay_ that he's going to die, that shit happens, but-"_

"Whoa, there. Easy, big fella." The babble was angry now. Short time and few conversations that Shawn had had with the younger Winchester and he knew that Sam was a talker when it came to problems and Dean was not. Shawn wasn't _entirely_ surprised that Sam had gone beyond 'letting Shawn know they weren't going to make it' and into full on 'I need someone to spew on can I use your open ear?' mode.

Though the fact that there was no alcohol involved this time was a bit unexpected.

He also knew from his brief experience that the kid had a guilt reservoir a mile wide and if Shawn let him continue on this path of emotional puking, he'd find his way to a reason why this was all his fault and fill that puppy to the brim. A conclusion that was even less true this time than last.

And since—once again—Dean was out of commission, it fell to Shawn.

He sighed. His mother would be so proud that she'd managed to rub off on him like this.

Ah well. That couldn't be helped. But maybe Sam could.

"The doctors said a month?"

"_Yeah. Well, a few weeks, maybe a month. They're not sure. The only thing they _know_ for sure is that he's not going to make it."_

Oh yeah. No lingering bitterness there.

"Sam, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Sam sighed. _"Not really. I mean, unless you know of a magical way to fix a damaged heart?"_

It was said with such an underlying current of wistful hope that Shawn wished he did.

Well, he wished he did anyway. Because Dean so did not deserve this. Neither did Sam.

"I . . . where are you?" Shawn stood, eyes skimming over the hotel room he was currently calling home. He'd only been here a day and he'd been out for most of that so he wasn't really unpacked.

"_What?"_

"Where are you at?" Shawn said, slowly, emphasizing the words. "State, city, hell, hospital name even." He bent down and retrieved a dirty shirt, tossing it on the bed to start a pile.

"_Why?"_

"Because I'm not doing anything and if you're not coming here I might as well go there." He stopped. "Unless they're not letting Dean out of the hospital because he's that bad. Then again, no one should spend their last days in a hospital being forced to watch crappy daytime television." He kept moving. "You know what? Doesn't matter. I'll sneak him in some decent movies if nothing else."

Did he still have that portable DVD player here somewhere? Oooh, there it was. Now, should he stop by a Suncoast here and pick up movies or trust that the local Blockbuster out there would have them?

A strangled sort of snorted laugh escaped Sam and Shawn wondered what the hell he'd said. But it was apparently swallowed because Sam sounded fairly normal when he spoke again.

"_Shawn, uh, I appreciate it, really, I do. But-"_

"But what?" Shawn stopped and frowned.

"_You don't have to do this. I mean, we're not . . . It's fine. We're okay. Or, we will be. But-"_

"Can I want to anyway?"

Sam snorted what might have actually been a laugh that time. Shawn's lips curled just a little, wryly victorious.

"_Seriously, Shawn, I appreciate it. A lot. It's . . ."_ He coughed. _ "I'll let Dean know you offered. But there's no reason for you to come out here. I think I might have a lead on someone who can help and if that doesn't work . . ."_ Another cleared throat and a strained voice. _"Maybe we'll come after all. California's a much nicer place to die than-" _A cough and Sam's voice was stronger._ "I have to go. I need to call my dad and then do some more research. I just wanted to let you know not to expect us."_

"Wait, someone who can help? I thought the doctors said-"

"_Yeah, well, this guy's not exactly a doctor. But that's one advantage of our line of work. You get to know people with . . . alternatives not available in the medical world."_

Oh yeah _that_ sounded good. NOT.

"Sam, what are you planning to do?"

"_Huh? Nothing."_

Oh yeah. Shawn was buying _that_ innocent tone. Because, you know, he hadn't used it himself a thousand times. Didn't Sam know that other Jedi were not susceptible to mind tricks?

"_we're just going to see a friend of a friend who might be able to help. It's kind of homeopathic, I guess you might say, and-"_

"Sam."

"_Look, I have to go, Shawn. I'll, uh, keep you informed of updates if you want."_

Shawn sighed. There would be no getting information out of Sam and no persuading him out of his plan.

Whatever it was.

But Sam knew 'people with alternatives not available in the medical world' and that, combined with some of what Dean had told him in his stories of past hunts, had Shawn worried. He didn't even have a real clear idea of what Sam could possibly be talking about, but he had watched too many horror and sci-fi movies as a kid to ignore the feeling in his gut that said this was a bad idea.

And he had a feeling Dean wouldn't be on board with this. He might be wrong about that, but Dean seemed pretty clear on where certain lines were drawn.

Shawn understood Sam was desperate but . . .

Maybe a little tattling was be in order. But not to Sam. Obviously.

"Yeah," Shawn said, realizing the silence had stretched. "Keep me updated. Please. And if you need _anything_ call, okay? I can be on a plane in an hour or less. Seriously, dude. _Anything_."

"_Okay. Thanks, Shawn."_

"Sure, Sam. Tell your brother I'm gonna kick his ass for making me miss Spring Break. And don't watch the soaps. They're like crack. The game shows are boring, but they're not addictive until you hit retirement age and start knitting and adopting cats and tea-cup Chihuahuas."

Sam laughed. _"I'll pass it on."_

Shawn ended the call and dropped the hand with the phone to bump against his thigh, wiping the other hand over his face and through his hair.

He glanced at the menus, then shook his head. Food was just not so appealing anymore.

Lifting the phone he dialed Dean's number, waited until the rings gave way to voicemail and sighed.

"Dean, it's Shawn. I just heard from Sam, uh, about the," he waved a hand that wouldn't be seen. "Thing. With the rawhead or whatever. Dude, that sucks. Um, anyway, Sam said something that . . . I know it's not my business, but he sounded kinda . . ." He scrunched up his face, then blew out a breath. "I don't know. Uh, call me. Or . . . something." He winced and ended the call, bopping his furrowed forehead with the fist around his phone.

"Awesome message, dude," he berated himself. "Way to not be creepy and weird."

Then he exhaled and and straightened.

"Whatever. Too late now."

He picked up the fallen papers and replaced them on the table, then shrugged into his jacket and patted his pocket to check for keys. His phone was tucked away where he'd feel it vibrate, then he headed out the door.

He needed to go for a ride.

o.o

It was almost midnight when the phone rang.

Shawn jerked awake and blinked sleepily as he groped for the light, then squinted at the vibrating cell.

He considered ignoring it, but then he checked the name and sat up straight in bed, sleep gone from his mind.

"Dean? Dude, are you all right?"

A tired laugh came back through the line.

"_Sammy's a worry wart."_

Shawn half smiled. "Yeah, well, he has reason to be from the sound of it. You sound like crap, dude."

"_Thanks, man. Way to encourage the sick guy."_

"Anytime. Hey, where are you?"

"_Uh . . . Illinois. I think. I dunno. Convinced Sam to stop for the night so I could sneak out and call you. Dude, what did he say to you?"_

"That you got your dumb ass fried by standing in a pool of water while shooting a taser. Way to go, genius, by the way. But if you're looking for originality for your Darwin Award nomination you should know that you totally failed. It doesn't take you out of the running, but electrocution is so not original. "

"_Dammit. I was so hoping to get that, too. Well hell, I'll just have to settle for an Oscar and a Nobel Peace Prize."_

"Yeah, sounds like it. Standing in water and firing a taser, dude? Seriously? Even _I_ know not to do that!"

"_Okay, first off, I wasn't standing in it. My boots would have actually provided some protection then. And when I shot the damn thing he wasn't in the water. He fucking stepped in it right as he got hit."_

"Yeah, well, same difference, dude." Then Shawn sobered. "So, uh, heart attack, huh?"

Dean sighed. _"Yeah. Guess it really did a number on me too because the docs say it's not fixable. Not how I wanted to go out, but . . . Everyone's got to go sometime. And we saved the kids so . . . could be worse."_

Shawn leaned back against the headboard. "Dude, you gotta stop that."

"_Stop what? Being realistic? Oh please, not you too. Why the hell can't anyone let me die in peace?"_

"Oh, I don't know," Shawn said. "Maybe because we don't want you to die at all?"

"_That's what Sammy said, too. But sometimes . . . you just can't stop it. I wouldn't turn down a few more years, sure, but I'm not full of an assload of regrets either. I had a good life. I saved a lot of people. That's nothing to be ashamed of. And I got Sammy back before the hunt took me. That's all I care about. Shit happens, man. That's a fact of life you can't change."_

Shawn frowned. "Sam seems to think he can."

Dean snorted. _"Sam is grasping at straws._" His voice took on a gentler tone then. _"He's not ready to let me go yet. But he'll come around. Won't have much of a choice here in a week or two. I mean, hell, I've been in this business for years and I've seen just about every way people try to cheat death. It doesn't end well."_

"He said he was taking you to-"

Dean sighed again. _"Yeah. A specialist, I know. We'll see. The doc in North Carolina seemed pretty sure I was toast, but maybe he doesn't know anything. I dunno. Sam feels like he's doing something and as long as he doesn't take me to some voodoo priest and this doctor of his isn't named Frankenstein, I'll go along with it. Can't hurt, right?"_

Shawn considered telling Dean exactly what Sam had said, but he'd had time to think about it and decided he was probably blowing things out of proportion. Sam was the more level-headed of the Winchester brothers. If it had been _Dean_ then there would be real cause for concern. He had a serious protective streak running through his veins.

But Shawn was pretty sure that Sam wasn't desperate enough to do anything stupid and even if he'd taken a few years off for school he'd probably seen a lot of what Dean had. He knew better than to cross any lines.

This friend of a friend probably was some sort of homeopathic hippie with a 'magic herb' to cure Dean's ills. Dean would be pissed, but no serious harm done. And it made Sam feel better so there was actually a bright side.

Besides, knowing that werewolves existed and hearing about demons was a far cry from believing in zombies. Some of those things _had_ to be complete fiction, right?

So Shawn smiled, shaking his head in amusement. "Dude, you gotta tone down that optimism, man, or it's gonna get you in trouble one of these days. It's not healthy to be that full of hope and cheer."

Dean laughed, weak, but genuine. _"I'll try to work on that."_

There was a silence while Shawn tried to think of anything else to say, but Dean beat him to it.

"_Hey, Shawn?"_

"Yeah?"

"_Can you, uh . . . Can you do me a favor?"_

"Anything."

Another pause, and Dean's voice came back just a bit surprised, like he hadn't expected the speed or carte blanche nature of the response.

"_Okay, uh . . . When I'm gone, Sam . . . He's not going to take it well. I'm still here and he looks like he wants to hug me 24/7. When I die, he's . . . Can you . . . you know . . . call him once in a while? Just . . . make sure he's okay? Not doing anything stupid. I was thinking of trying to talk him into going back to school. He's not really as into hunting as I am and . . . I dunno. Ah, fuck. Forget it. Painkillers're making me all girly or something. I think they gave me Pamprin instead of Motrin. Bastards."_

"Dude, I'll call," Shawn said. "I'll even drag his ass to a beach and make him talk to a girl or two. Might have to get him drunk first, but they'll eat that up, the wounded puppy thing he has going."

Dean laughed. _"Hell yes they will. I can't pull it off, but he's got that emo vibe that just screams 'pet me'. And not in the way actual guys like you and me think of petting. I think it's the hair. Make him cut his hair, too."_

"Sure, Dean. But you have to promise me something, too."

"_What?"_

"If this doctor of his doesn't pan out, come to California."

"_You got a specialist friend too?"_ Dean asked wryly. _"I swear, everyone knows someone but me."_

"No," Shawn said, "well, okay, yeah, I probably do, though I don't know it." He thought briefly of Gus and made a mental note to make a phone call in the morning. Then he waved a hand. "Anyway if you're going to die, it might as well be surrounded by beautiful women in the warm Cali sun."

Dean laughed at that. _"That's what I told Sam back in North Carolina! I didn't want to die in that damn hospital because the nurses weren't even close to hot. Not even warm. And some of them were downright frigid. Dude, you definitely need to see if you can teach Sammy about girls after I'm gone. I tried, but obviously it didn't stick. Maybe you'll have better luck. Maybe he'll listen to you."_

Shawn didn't miss the regretful twist on the tail end of Dean's words.

"Dean-"

"_I gotta go, Shawn. Don't want Sam to wake up and find me not sleeping. It was good talking to you, though, and I'll call in a couple of days after this doctor thing is over with. We'll come to California and you can show me all these hot babes you keep bragging about."_

Shawn just shook his head, lips curling on one side.

"Take it easy, dude." He hesitated, then added seriously, "And try not to be too hard on Sam. He's just trying to help."

"_Have you been talking to him a lot lately, Shawna? Or have you always been this much of a girl and I just missed it somehow?"_

Shawn raised the pitch of his voice and lowered the IQ. "Dude, why do you think I'm always flirting with you? I'm going to have enough saved up for the surgery soon and then you'll see me for who I really am!"

"_And on that creepy note, I'm going to bed. Night, dude. Uh, sorry about the wake up call."_

"No worries. Night, Dean."

Snapping his phone shut, Shawn placed it on the nightstand and shifted to his stomach, one hand under the pillow—though it wasn't gripping a big ass knife or anything. Maybe the pillow a little. But not because he expected to need it for defense before the night was over.

Shawn reached up and flipped the light off again and, with a final, settling sigh, tried to find sleep once more.

o.o

"_A faith healer!"_

The snarled words weren't much of a hello and Shawn had been expecting a return call from Gus so they took Shawn by surprise as he sat eating his sweet and sour chicken.

"A what?" he asked.

"_That was his 'specialist',"_ Dean said. _ "A fucking faith healer."_

Shawn frowned, setting aside the take-out carton and licking his thumb clean. "Like . . . those guys in tents? Before they get the TV specials?"

"_Exactly like that. Right down to the fucking tent and the hallelujahs from the fucking crowd. That little bastard tricked me into going, laying on the guilt and the puppy dog eyes so thick I almost died right there in the parking lot of asphyxiation before we even made it to the 'healing' part."_

Shawn gaped for a moment, pineapple smoothie stopped halfway to his mouth, then said, "I'm sorry, Dean."

"_What the hell for? Did you tell him to take me there?"_

And wow that was a scary level of . . . scary . . . in his voice, Shawn thought, eyebrows rising in response.

"_Fuck. Is that what you meant? What the hell did he say?"_

"Well, no, I didn't tell him to take you there. But, I mean-"

"_What. Did. He. Say?"_ Shawn swallowed, forcibly reminded that Dean's father was a Marine and—according to Sam—this was Daddy's perfect little soldier.

"He said something about knowing people in your line of work that had alternatives not found in medicine-"

"_And you didn't think you should mention that? Fuck, Shawn. Knowing what we do every day, that doesn't sound bad to you?_"

Shawn stiffened at the condescending and implacable tone that had a remarkable way of tossing Shawn a decade into the past and right back into his father's kitchen.

"Yeah, dude, it sounds bad," he snapped back. "If you're living in a fucking Romero film. But excuse me for not assuming that every damn horror movie out there is actually based in fact. Besides, Sam's supposed to be the smart college boy. I didn't think he'd do anything really stupid. That's your job, Mr. I'm-Going-To-Stand-In-Water-And-Shoot-A-Fucking-Super-Taser."

The, _"Fuck you,"_ that came back was softly growled but no less menacing.

Shawn ran a hand through his hair, reminding himself that this was not his father and Dean dealt with some pretty epic shit on a day-to-day basis, not to mention he was dying because said epic shit had come back and bitten him in the ass. He was entitled to a freak out or two.

"Look, I'm sorry, Dean. I really didn't think that it was that big a deal. I assumed it was some, I don't know, hippie with some ground up oregano in a dime bag or something. Maybe some yoga or Tai Chi, I don't know. He said it was homeopathic and that to me didn't come across as _Dawn of the Dead_."

"_Yeah, well, next time, smart ass, let the professionals decide what is and is not 'a big deal'. And if Sam tells you something that sounds even slightly stupid_—_even if it doesn't sound '_Dawn of the Dead_',"_ he added, voice dripping with sarcasm enough to have Shawn's hackles rising again, _"you tell me. Got it?"_

Shawn bit down on his anger and managed to sound mostly civil when he said, "Yeah, I got it." Mostly civil. There might have been a hint of bitterness in there.

Then his anger died completely when he realized why Dean was so pissed. Hope hurt more when it was smothered again after being fanned into reluctant life. Dean had accepted his fate and then Sam came along and said he had a solution and now Dean had to accept it all over again.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the palm of his hand, the elbow of that arm propping him up on the table. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm sorry it didn't work, Dean."

"_Didn't work?"_ Dean repeated, his anger not even beginning to cool._ "Oh no. No, that's the problem, Shawn. It _did_ work!"_

Shawn's brows drew back down and he sat up straight. "Wait, what? What do you mean it worked?"

"_I mean he healed me. That fucking faith healer laid his hands on my head and I was healed! Hallelujah and glory be!"_

"But-"

"_We even had it checked out. You know what the doc said? She gave me a clean bill of health. Then she said that there never _was_ any damage from what she can tell."_ Fervently muttered curses leaked through the phone.

"But how-"

"_I don't know! But I intend to find the fuck out."_

The call was ended abruptly and Shawn was left listening to a dial tone.

Forehead wrinkling, he let the phone and hand drop to the table.

So Dean _wasn't_ dying now?

Man. This so could not be good.

Except for the Dean not dying part. That was awesome, but . . . But some bad juju-magumbo had to be coming down the line if Dean was that pissed off about it.

Shawn just hoped that Sam didn't regret this before it was over. Well, any more than Dean was surely going to make him regret it even if things didn't go pear-shaped.

o.o

Dean sat on the end of the bed, staring at the floor. Sam watched him for a moment as he packed, balling up a shirt to be stuffed in the dirty laundry portion of his bag.

"What is it?"

Dean looked up, but didn't maintain eye contact as he shrugged out a, "Nothing."

Yeah, Sam so wasn't buying that. He rested his hands on his hips and smiled. "What is it?"

Dean gave in with surprising little effort. "We did the right thing here, didn't we?"

"Of course we did," Sam said, only partially surprised by the question. He was sorry about Marshall Hall, but . . . there was no taking it back. And Sam would never regret saving Dean's life. Never.

Plus, they'd stopped Sue Ann from killing anyone else. That had to count for something.

Dean considered his answer. "Yeah, doesn't feel like it."

Sam wanted to say something, to make Dean understand that it wasn't his fault and that he needed to let the guilt go, but a knock at the door interrupted before he found the words. Dammit.

"I got it," he said and headed for the door, unsurprised by the blonde woman on the other side. He'd been hoping she would show. Not right this _second_, but . . . Well, too late. The moment was gone.

And maybe she could help Dean understand where Sam could not.

"Hey, Leyla, come on in," he invited.

Dean stood, surprised, of course, to see the young woman again after last night.

"Hey," he said. "How'd you know we were here?"

"Um, Sam called," she explained, motioning to him and glancing his way, the little minx. She wasn't supposed to share that part. "He said you wanted to say goodbye."

And that was Sam's cue to leave.

"I'm gonna grab a soda," he said and escaped before Dean could stop him, returning a grin for the one that Dean offered that promised later retribution.

It would be worth it, Sam thought, closing the door behind himself with a carefully exhaled breath.

He did head for the soda machine down the hall, pulling out his cell phone as he went.

Punching the correct button, he waited for the answer.

"_Sam. Dude. What the hell is going on?"_

Sam winced at the slightly annoyed tone.

"Hey, Shawn. We're okay."

"_And Dean's not dying. Yeah, I got that newsflash."_

Sam frowned. "You did? When?"

"_When Dean called me yesterday, pissed as hell."_

Oh. Damn.

"What did he, uh, tell you?"

"_Not much. He said you took him to a faith healer and the guy actually healed him. Oh and that he was going to find out how exactly. He sounded like he intended to rip the answers out of someone if necessary. You might want to look into some anger management for him now that he's not dying."_

Blowing out a breath, Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall.

"Yeah. He was pretty pissed."

"_Yeah. Understatement of the year, dude. So what happened? Did you guys figure out how the guy did it?"_

"Yeah. We did." Sam dug out change and jiggled it in his hands for a moment as he considered. Then he plunked it into the machine. "Shawn, what do you know about reapers?"

"_Besides the fact that they're grim?"_

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Besides that." He made his choice and pressed the button, frowning when it buzzed and whirred and then the light flashed indicating that flavor was out. Dammit.

"_I don't know. It's like a representation of Death. Why?"_

"Because that's what it was. Sue Ann, Roy Le Grange's wife, had bound a reaper and was controlling it." He tried his next choice but it too came up empty. Shit. "See, reapers are the only thing that can control life and death like that, giving it and taking it away. She started it to save her husband, and then decided to keep going, saving the lives of faithful God-fearing people."

"_Okay, so she basically told Death to take a hike? How?"_

Sam smiled and tried his third choice. "Not exactly." It didn't work either and he frowned and just started punching all the buttons seeing if ANY worked.

No joy.

Dammit.

He hit the refund button and wasn't remotely surprised when nothing happened.

Yeah. That was a shock.

He thought about going to the front desk and asking for a refund but decided not to.

He didn't feel like arguing with the clerk over a buck in change.

"_Sam?" _Shawn said. _"Hellooo? Can you hear me now?"_ He blew on the mic a couple of times.

"Oh, sorry." Sam turned and started to walk back along the hall. "A reaper controls life and death, but it can't just give it willy-nilly. It can only exchange one for another."

"_Wait, so this reaper that she was using to heal people. . . it was stealing the life from someone else?"_

"Yeah. Specifically, people that Sue Ann Le Grange decided needed to be punished for their wickedness. Or anyone she thought was less worthy of life than the penitent faithful who came to hear her husband preach. She'd call the reaper and force it to give the healthy life to the sick, transferring the illness to her victims."

"_That's . . . Ugh. That's horrible. What the hell, man?"_

"Yeah."

"_So Dean's heart thing-"_

"A gay teacher at the local high school. Apparently Sue Ann was a little homophobic and decided to punish Hall for his sins. He dropped dead when he was at the pool swimming. A perfectly healthy guy with a heart attack out of nowhere."

"_How's Dean feel about that?"_

Sam snorted. "Dean doesn't think his life is worth a whole lot so he's royally pissed that someone else died to save him. He feels guilty for stealing a life, which is absurd because _he_ didn't do it. He wasn't the one controlling the reaper."

There was a brief pause.

"_You _can_ see where he's coming from though, right, Sam? I mean, how would you feel?"_

"No, I can. I mean, yeah it sucks that the guy died. But we didn't even know what Sue Ann was doing until after Dean was healed. Marshall Hall would have died anyway, just not of a heart attack. And since we can't undo it . . . I'm not sorry Dean's alive. I won't apologize for _that_."

Shawn sighed. _"I'm not sorry he's alive either, dude, but you need to see where Dean is coming from. He may not have been in charge of it or asked for it, but he did benefit from it. Just cut him a little slack, okay?"_

Sam sighed. "Yeah. I guess."

The door to the room opened as Sam reached it and he smiled and waved at Layla as she walked past.

"Bye, Sam."

"Bye, Layla. Good luck. Hey, listen, Shawn, I have to go. I just wanted to say thanks for letting us bug you this week and sorry again for ditching you."

"_No problem, man. So, do you think you'll be heading this way now that Dean's not living under a deadline?"_

Sam thought of the look he'd caught a glimpse of on his brother's face when the door was opened to let Layla out.

"Uh, probably not. Sorry," he said with a wince. "I just don't think Dean's going to be in a mood to cruise the beaches right now."

"_Don't worry about it. I understand. Maybe another time."_

"Yeah. Really, I'm sorry-"

"_Relax, dude!"_ Shawn said with a laugh. _"It's okay. I promise. I get it. But if you get a job that brings you out this way, and you don't stop? Then we're going to have words. Angry words. Like meanie-face and liar-liar-pants-on-fire. You just remember that."_

Sam laughed. "I'll be sure to warn Dean."

"_No, dude, that warning was for you. Don't you dare tell Dean I said that."_

Sam's head tilted, mouth quirking in an amused but confused smile. "Why not?"

"_Dude, have you heard your brother? He's downright scary when he gets mad. He's not going to fear me."_

"Oh, but I should?"

"_Well, yeah, dude."_

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You do know that I was trained by the same guy that trained Dean—and that Dean himself trained me in a lot of things. Right?"

"_Whatever. I could still take you. You don't have the super-scary voice of doom like Dean."_

"Uh huh. Well, you have fun out there on the beaches, Shawn."

"_Oh I will. In fact, I was thinking of heading back to my old stomping grounds and seeing how my best friend Gus is doing. He went to college like you and I'd bet he's gotten very boring. He tends to do that when I'm not around. Maybe it's time to spice up his life again."_

Sam felt a twinge of pity for poor Gus. Shawn's voice right then had been that exact same one Dean always used right before Sam's day or night went down the toilet in a rush of dirty water.

But it might be amusing to watch if Sam wasn't the one the tone was being unleashed upon.

"Maybe we'll make our way down to . . . where is it again?"

"_Santa Barbara. Best city in California, dude."_

"Uh huh. I'm partial to Palo Alto myself, but, uh-"

"_Ohhhh. So _that's_ why he wanted to know . . . huh."_

Sam frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Who? Dean? What did he want to know?"

"_Huh? Oh nothing. Doesn't matter. Anyway, if Palo Alto is what you know of California then you _really_ need to come to Santa Barbara."_

"We'll see," Sam said neutrally.

"_You better."_

"See you later, Shawn."

"_You too, buddy. And I mean it. Come to SB. We'll have jerk chicken. It'll be great."_

"Okay. Bye, Shawn."

"_Bye, Sam."_

Sam shut his phone and headed back into the room where Dean was packing. His phone call appeared to have taken just enough time to let Dean put himself back together.

Bury the emotion like he always did.

Sam wasn't sure that was healthy. But maybe Shawn had a point and he needed to cut Dean a little slack. It had been a rough week.

"So I think I found a job in Pennsylvania," Dean said.

"We're not going to California?" Sam asked, watching his brother carefully.

Dean grimaced. "Ah, yeah, I don't . . . um . . ."

Sam smiled. "It's okay. I called Shawn. Said you probably weren't up to beach bunny hunting."

Dean shot him a glare. "What're you talking about?" He wiggled his eyebrows and leered. "I'm always _up_ for beach bunny hunting."

Sam chuffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean," he said dryly. "I know. Unfortunately. So do you want to go?" he asked, serious once more. "I'm sure the offer is still open."

Dean didn't respond and the smile left his eyes. "Nah." He looked away, went back to packing. "This thing in Pennsylvania sounds like it might be a black dog or a werewolf. Something with teeth that likes to chew on humans and leaves a mess behind. Business before pleasure and all that crap."

Sam didn't push the issue further. This was why he'd told Shawn no. Dean could bluff with the best of them, but it wasn't without a cost and he didn't need that extra stress right now. As backwards as it was, he'd relax more on a hunt than on the beach.

"Okay," he said instead. "Probably not a werewolf, though, the lunar cycle's wrong."

Dean bobbed his head to the side. "Good point. So black dog then. Easy hunt. Let's finish packing and hit the road."

Sam watched him, but said nothing.

He just hoped Shawn was right and all Dean needed was a little time.

* * *

Just so you all know, I blame you guys for my total lack of will power when it comes to posting. I _really_ should be waiting longer than I do between chapters. BUT I CAN'T HELP IT.

And just to make sure we're clear: If you want this pace to continue then KEEP REVIEWING. Because that right there is what make my Muse poke me with a sharp stick until I post.

So . . .

Review, please and thanks! :D


	6. Six: Conversations and Clothes Dryers

I have taken a vow to shorten my author's notes. Most of you probably aren't reading them anyway and, let's be honest, we're all here for the story not to listen to me blabber on.

And I've gone long again. *headdesk*

NEXT CHAPTER. I SWEAR. -_-;

**TIMELINE MARKER**

Psych: You guessed it, still pre-series. The good news? Shawn is officially back in SB. :D YAYZ! And within a few more stories he'll actually be opening up Psych. It's all kinds of exciting. :D

SPN: You ought to be able to figure this out within a line or two, but I'll go ahead and mention it anyway: _Route 666_ is the episode of choice this time. I think after last chapter's bonding sessions we can officially up the number of calls without it being too weird—though you still shouldn't expect a lot of random, "How was your week, honey?" type calls. This still isn't _The __Baby-Sitters Club_ and it sure as hell isn't _Sweet Valley High_. Sam and Dean and Shawn are not going to be racking up the minutes just to shoot the breeze. Occasionally, yes. But not, like, every week. To that end, I still won't be covering EVERY episode. I will, however, be covering more than I skip.

Okay enough babbling.

GO. READ. REVIEW. :D

* * *

"_Dude, Sam was right."_

Shawn blinked, but the jumping right into a conversation without any sort of greeting was beginning to become familiar with the Winchesters—or at least Dean anyway—so he didn't pause as long as he might have.

"About what?"

"_I need to have conversations that don't start with 'so this killer truck'. And since I don't spend a lot of time actually _talking_ with the girls I meet and the conversations I have with Sam are the ones that start with 'so this killer truck', I guess that means you get to fulfill my non-killer truck conversating needs."_

That had Shawn pausing in the act of transferring his clothes from washer to dryer. "Killer trucks?"

"_Yeah. Killer trucks."_

Shawn pondered his next response carefully.

"Are you drunk?"

"_Dude," _Dean said, sounding offended,_ "do I _sound_ drunk?"_

"Well . . . no," Shawn had to admit. "Where are you?"

"_Laundromat. It's a little early in the week for that, but you have to get swamp muck out before it sets or it's a pain in the ass." _ He chuckled._ "Or in this case a _stain_ in the ass."_

Shawn barely repressed a laugh. "You did not just go there."

"_Oh I did. I did indeed."_

"Are you _high_?"

An audible sniff crossed the continent via wireless transmission. _"Not yet. Only been here for one load. The fabric softener doesn't start to affect me until at least the fifth or sixth cycle. So, I've got . . ." _He hummed thoughtfully. _ "Maybe three loads. Not counting the ones that'll have to go through double. And there is no one else here but Sam who is—hopefully—looking up porn on that fancy phone of his. Which means I am bored. Ready, go. Entertain me."_

Shawn hitched himself up onto a dryer and got comfortable.

"Your dad's a Marine?"

"_Was, yeah."_

"And you're capable of being bored? Shouldn't you be doing laps or push ups or something else mindless but useful?"

"_Why don't you want to talk to me? Is this a bad time? Dude, are you with a girl? Can you share?"_

Shawn looked around. The only other person in the room with Shawn was a ninety-year-old abuela knitting herself into a frenzy.

"No. No girls. I wish, but no."

"_Damn. Well, okay. So talk about something else then. Be interesting."_

The next question that popped into Shawn's mind involved how often Dean's father dosed him with Dimetapp as a child to keep him quiet on car trips.

But Shawn was as bored as Dean and so he complied. Sort of.

"So, this killer truck . . ."

"_Cute. Real cute, smart ass. You keep that up and I'm going to tell Sammy you're trying on women's underwear."_

The mic was briefly muffled as Shawn rolled his eyes.

"_Shawn. Yeah, I know. The perv. Go back to your porn."_

"Seriously though, killer trucks?"

"_You are not going to let this go are you?"_

"Honestly? Nope. Dude, killer trucks!"

Dean sighed, but gave in. _"Yeah, killer trucks. I got that part, thanks."_

"Is that . . ." Shawn's face scrunched down, lips poking out in a thoughtful pout. Normal wasn't _quite_ the word he was looking for here.

But Dean seemed to understand his dilemma. _"No. It's not something we see every day. Or often. Or freaking ever. That one was weird even for me. And get this, it wasn't just a murdering truck. It was _racist_. A big ol' tricked-out monster truck with KKK leanings. I'm telling you, Shawn, this job is never boring. Occasionally deadly, often disgusting, but never boring."_

"No kidding."

"_Now that we've gotten that out of the way . . ."_

Shawn checked the time on his laundry, then leaned back, bracing an arm on the dryer he was sitting on, and took pity on the poor hunter. "Seen the new Mission: Impossible yet?"

"_Nah. Maybe this weekend. Is it good?"_

Shawn shrugged. "Better than the second, but I'm not sure it can beat the first."

Dean snorted, "_Dude, how can it_ not_ be better than the second? That one sucked._"

"Yes it did," Shawn agreed wholeheartedly.

"_And the first was _awesome._ If you can get past Tom Cruise's pansy ass. Although he played a pretty good spook. And the effects?" _Dean whistled. _"Dude, if they made gum like that, I'd be all over that shit."_

"Hell yeah, you would, Pyro boy."

"_I can admit I like fire, Shawn. It's not a problem unless I can't control it. And as often as I get to set shit on fire I have no reason to not be able to control it."_

Shawn snorted. "I bet Smokey the Bear doesn't like you."

Shawn could hear the lazy grin through the phone. _"Smokey the Bear is a rug on a cabin floor in Colorado thanks to me._"

That got a laugh. "Dude, I bet he is. Ranger hat and all."

"_Hell yes. So, Sam said you were thinking of going back to Santa Barbara?"_

"Yeah, uh, I'm already here actually. Don't know how long I'll stay. Probably until Gus gets sick of me again and offers to buy me a couple of tanks worth of gas so he can actually do some work and not get fired." Another shrug. "Or until I think of somewhere more interesting than here. Where are you that you're hunting killer trucks?"

"_Missouri."_

"Saint Louis again?"

There was a half-moment of silence, and when it ended Dean seemed surprised. _"Ah, no. Not going back to Saint Louis any time soon. If ever."_ Shawn frowned at that, but Dean was already moving on.

"_Uh, no, we were a little south of there. A place called Cape Girardeau. I have an old . . . friend here and she had a problem and called me up to ask for some help."_

"Old friend, huh?" Shawn said, grinning.

Dean's weary sigh was unexpected. _"Yeah. Something like that. Anyway."_

Shawn tried to think of how to redirect the conversation when Dean beat him to it.

"_Dude, you know you _suck_ at conversation? I called specifically to _not_ talk about killer trucks."_

"Hey, dude, it's only old to you. I don't think I will ever get past the weird factor of killer trucks. But I'll spare you this time and bug you about it later."

Dean snorted. _"Thanks."_

"Anytime, dude. So, I met this cute little waitress the other night."

"_Oh yeah?"_

They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing girls, cars, and bikes, and from there engines. A brief debate over music surfaced, but they decided to agree to disagree again on what was classified under 'good taste'. Although they both agreed that rap, country, and folk music all _definitely_ fit under 'bad taste'. Also, musically speaking, the eighties were a decade of distinction.

Dean lost the coin toss and had to take scrub duty on a load that was particularly bad, thus leaving Shawn to talk to Sam for awhile.

They discussed mutual points of familiarity within the state of California, good beaches and bad restaurants, and Shawn learned that Dean was doing okay physically and the heart thing seemed to really be over. A relief since that whole thing was still kind of—a lot of—weird for Shawn.

That was about the time Dean stole his phone back and said that they were heading to grab a late dinner before going back to the room to sort and fold.

Well, _Sam_ was going to fold. Dean was going to roll or stuff and then find a decent movie on TV.

Shawn acknowledged that he needed to get moving if he was going to catch Gus before he left work and goodbyes followed with a few parting shots for good measure.

As he tucked the phone back into his pocket, Shawn marveled that he'd just spent four hours talking with a couple of guys who hunted impossible things for a living and had had a conversation that was—mostly—about the most mundane of topics. Idle chit chat at its finest.

He wondered, as he stuffed his laundry into his backpack, if a day would ever come when he'd actually get used to the Winchesters.

Nah, he decided, stepping out into the cool but still comfortable evening air. Probably not.

That was when the shadow detached itself from the building.

"Shawn Spencer?"

Shawn slowed, wary. "Maybe. Who're you?"

The man stepped fully into the light and Dean's description from almost a year ago popped right up into the front of Shawn's head. Graying hair, short beard, leather jacket, piercing brown eyes . . . and that indefinable air about him that said as surely as any DNA test that he'd produced and then trained Dean and Sam Winchester.

John Winchester just returned the stare. "We need to talk."

* * *

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH EVIL CLIFFY OF DOOOOOM! *iz evil*

Oh come on, like you thought this would NEVER happen? Psh. Those of you new to my stories might have an excuse. But you old hats out there? You so knew this would happen eventually. You _had_ to.

But at least I post quickly, right? That's not so bad.

*hands out brown paper lunch bags* Breathe deep and think happy thoughts. You'll survive.

And reviews get faster posts. Just remember that. ;D


	7. Yes, Sir No, Sir Three Bags Full, Sir

Here we have the first Voice Mail! They're not actually episode tags so I wanted to set them apart, but they're very integral to this story so I didn't want to publish them separately. They're more like . . . tags to a Phone Tag. And they don't take place over the phone. They take place IRL. (So to speak. :D)

Instead of a timeline marker they'll also have the loverly (snurched) addition you see below.

Also, if you want a visual of the creatures John refers to go to http: (slash) (slash) www (dot) psychfic (dot) com (slash) community (slash) showpost (dot) php?p=33131&postcount=1 to see some lovely fanart by the awesome dragonnan! :D

ENOUGH BABBLING! ENJOY!

* * *

**THEN**

"_Shawn Spencer?"_

_Shawn slowed, wary. "Maybe. Who're you?"_

_The man stepped fully into the light and Dean's description from almost a year ago popped right up into the front of Shawn's head. Graying hair, short beard, leather jacket, piercing brown eyes . . . and that indefinable air about him that said as surely as any DNA test that he'd produced and then trained Dean and Sam Winchester._

_John Winchester just returned the stare. "We need to talk."_

o.o

**NOW**

Shawn swallowed. "Talk?" he said, willing his voice to remain casual. So far, it was listening. "Uh, sure. There's a restaurant a block over-"

"My truck is this way," the older man said and started walking.

"Dude, I don't think so."

John stopped and turned back. "Excuse me?"

Shawn had to swallow once more, then squared his shoulders.

"I'm not going to go with you to your truck, dude. You want to talk, fine. But it's going to be in a public place."

John just arched an eyebrow. "You know who I am?"

Shawn nodded. "I think so."

"And you know what I do for a living?"

Another nod, though no speech this time. Did he _practice_ being this scary or what? Was it just because he used to be a Marine?

"And you're going to give me an order?" The eyebrow inched up higher.

Well, when he put it that way . . .

John sighed then, wiping a hand over his face. "Look, Shawn, I'm not going to kill you. I just want to talk to you. But I don't think you want to discuss the subjects I have in mind in a restaurant with other people around. I know _I_ sure as hell don't."

Shawn was way less worried about there not being any witnesses than those same witnesses thinking the two of them were crazy.

"Restaurant. Or I start running that way," he said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder, "screaming bloody murder."

John smiled and it was not a comforting thing.

"You think you can outrun me?"

"Maybe not," Shawn allowed, giving the other man a once over. John was about an inch taller than Dean which gave him a good three and a half inches on Shawn. And he was a former Marine who probably kept most of that workout regimen up considering his job.

Yeah, Shawn was screwed in a footrace.

"But I have a very loud scream. And if you don't want attention-"

He didn't see him move.

He didn't even see him fucking _move_.

One second he's staring at Shawn with this amused grin slowly forming on his face, then next Shawn is spun around, one hand pulling his arm up behind his back, the guy's other arm around his throat, not cutting off his air, but ready and capable of doing so.

"You've got good instincts, Shawn. Your father trained you well in that regard. But I have places to go and things to do and not a lot of time to stand here pissing in the wind. So we're going to go to my truck and we're going to do it right now. Have I made myself clear?"

Shawn was gasping, hands trying futilely to pull the iron bar known as an arm away from his throat. He gave brief thought to trying to kick his way free, but was pretty sure that would only get himself a broken foot. So he nodded, almost bashing John in the nose in his haste.

And just like that he was free, rubbing at his throat and stretching the arm that had been pinned behind him.

"Come on. This way."

Shawn glared at his back, but followed, all of his senses on high alert as he evaluated possible escape routes. Unfortunately, most of them led into alleys and such and Shawn wasn't dumb enough to think that was any sort of improvement over his current locale.

The truck was only a block away, a big black beast, and Shawn flashed back to the conversation he'd just had with Dean. It was not making for happy feelings in his gut.

John climbed up, then popped the passenger side door.

"Hop in."

Shawn gave one last look around—calculating his chances of escaping at higher but still probably a failure—then bowed to the inevitable and climbed up into the cab of the truck.

John started the engine and began driving.

"Where-"

"Just driving to be driving. Sitting still makes me itchy."

Shawn nodded. "Okay." He waited a beat, then slid his gaze sideways to watch his . . . captor? Bizarrely firm invitation extender?

"I understand you and Dean met in Iowa, going on a year ago."

"Uh, yes?" Shawn said. He had the sudden feeling that he was being interviewed or . . . vetted somehow.

John smiled. "Look, Shawn, how about we cut the crap?"

"Sounds like a plan." He barely stifled the 'Sir' that wanted to tack itself onto the end there.

From the way the corners of John's mouth hitched up a little higher, Shawn had a feeling it had been heard anyway.

"You know what my boys do. What we are."

"Hunters," Shawn said. "Ghostbusters. Vampire Slayers. The lead protagonist in every monster movie out there."

John chuckled. "All of that rolled into one and more besides." Then his smile faded. "Our job is dangerous. Most hunters don't last a year before something catches them unawares and they become a statistic. It's a steep learning curve and has a high attrition rate."

Was he being recruited? Shawn wondered with a certain amount of fascination. Because Dean had said he wasn't the right type of person, but maybe Dean's dad had a different opinion?

"And if you do survive that first year the second is even harder because that's when you learn the first truth of hunting: It's a lonely business. Hunters, we live on the fringes of society. We perform a necessary service, but much like the garbage man or the plumber, no one really wants to think about us. We solve their problems, save their lives, and they go back to their apple-pie, suburban American dream. And we hunters go to ground at a crappy motel where we lick our wounds and look for another job, another fugly to kill. Because most of us are in it for vengeance. And vengeful people are single-minded, self-serving sunzabitches. Dean and Sam? They're the exception."

Shawn frowned. "Because they were raised this way?"

"That, too. But they're not like most of us. They hunt for the same reasons, for vengeance, but it's not the same. It doesn't consume them the way it does most of the rest of us. Even Sam with Jessica . . . he wants vengeance. He wants her killer to pay and pay dearly. But that's not his only reason for doing this. He does it for Dean too. He stays for Dean. And Dean? Hell, that boys doesn't want for much in this life except a hunt, that car of his, and the occasional warm body to lose himself with. But mostly? He does it for Sam. They will both tell you that they share my quest. That they seek their mother's killer, Sam's girlfriend's killer. But in reality? They do it for each other. To protect each other."

Shawn was beginning to see some of the pieces he'd been gathering over the last year come together. And he had to agree with John for the most part.

Except . . .

"They do it for you, too."

John smiled sadly.

"They've been searching for you for almost a year now."

"Yeah, I know."

"Why the hell are you hiding?"

John glanced at him and Shawn instantly wondered if poking the grizzly in his den was such a gangbusters idea.

"To protect them. Because those boys are all I have left and I will not lose them to this fight the way I lost Mary."

Shawn frowned.

"We're getting off topic. Like I said, hunting, it's a lonely life. Sam and Dean, they have each other. But I don't know if that's enough. It's rare that a hunter has friends or family outside of the hunting community. As I said, we're fringe dwellers. People don't like to think about us and what we do. Makes it real hard to get close to anyone."

Shawn shifted in his seat. "Yeah well-"

"Shut up, Shawn."

"Okay," Shawn said and instantly complied.

They sat through a red light, then kept driving, their course unhurried and meandering. He was driving the speed limit, but no more than. Nothing remarkable about this truck for anyone to remember.

"You seem to be one of those rare, few individuals who manages to bridge the world of a hunter and the world of normal, boring, regular old life. And you've been a great help to my boys. Thank you."

Shawn blinked at the sincerity. "Uhh, you're welcome."

John chuckled, but the laughter quickly faded.

"Which is why it's only fair that I offer you an out."

Shawn's eyebrow rose. "An out? An out from what?"

"From being friend to a couple of hunters."

Now his brows came crashing down to furrow above his eyes.

"Huh?" he said intelligently.

"This life is dangerous. And not just for the hunters. Anyone who knows a hunter, anyone who is friends with a hunter, is automatically a target."

"For what?" Shawn asked, mouth drying in anticipation of the answer.

"Any and every evil fucking thing out there," John said, eyes locked into Shawn to catch his first—and second and third and maybe fourth—reactions.

Shawn paled slightly, Adam's apple bobbing. "What . . . What does that mean?"

"It means that by virtue of being friends with my son you are more likely to encounter the supernatural. In fact, it just might seek you out. And all because you had the misfortune to make friends with the wrong people."

"So what? I'm dead meat? Well that's comforting," he muttered.

John shook his head. "No, you don't have to be. Cut your ties now and don't look back. It's no guarantee, but you're a whole helluva lot less likely to be used as bait or a warning or some other dark—and often painful for you—purpose if you no longer maintain contact with any members of the hunting community."

Shawn's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to scare me into not being friends with your sons? Because, dude-"

"I'm trying to be fair, Shawn. I'm making sure you know what the hell you're getting into before it's too late."

"Okay, fine," Shawn said stiffly. "You guys are bad luck and knowing you could be hazardous to my health. Got it." Shawn's rising irritation seemed to have helped him grow a spine and he looked John square in the eye. "Was that all?" he asked.

John almost laughed.

Because Shawn still had no idea what the hell he was getting into. But damn if he didn't have a set of huge, tempered-steel balls between his legs.

Which John knew he'd need. But for his own peace of mind he had to be _sure_ that Shawn understood what he was doing by not running for his very life.

"You know, this one time I was down in Florida, near a place called Melbourne."

Shawn's eyes darted John's way. He was going to tell him stories now? What the hell?

"Nice little town I guess. Dean was about . . ." John did the math. "Sixteen or so? Sammy wasn't even in junior high yet. But Dean had been hunting with me for a while, easy stuff mostly. I had caught wind of a creature that the authorities were saying was some kind of rogue shark terrorizing the beaches." John snorted. "People will come up with some crazy shit to avoid the truth."

Shawn wondered if he realized that the very people he was talking about would probably say the exact same thing about him.

"Turns out it was mermaids. Some mutant version of them anyway. Little things, about six or seven inches long. Kinda like piranhas actually, but with a human-like head and face and these spindly little arms with webbed hands instead of fins. Creepy as hell."

Shawn's eyes were glued to John, wide enough to show an impressive amount of white.

"What the _fuck_?"

"Yeah, that was pretty much what Dean said when we first spotted 'em," John said with a chuckle.

"Why are you telling me this?" Shawn demanded.

He was ignored.

"It actually took me a while to figure out what they were, because besides being fugly they were damn clever too. In that time, Dean made a friend. Kind of unusual since that was more Sammy's deal, the whole, wanting normal thing, but it happened every now and again. Meredith was a nice girl. And she and Dean hit it off pretty quickly. I think they even actually dated a few times. Might have gone to a dance or two and if you knew Dean back then, _that_ was impressive on Meredith's part. Dean's not really one for the finer points of relationships like that."

Oh wow. The awkward quotient was rising to dangerous levels.

"You do know that Dean and I aren't, uh . . ." Shawn waved a hand.

"Yes, Shawn, I know," John said wryly. "Over the years my son has had a collection of skin mags and a string of one-night stands that would make Hugh Hefner jealous. Dean is good at hiding parts of himself, but even he wouldn't work that hard to hide something like his sexual orientation."

Shawn nodded. "Just . . . making sure we're clear."

Another low chuckle came from the driver's seat.

"We are. So anyway, Dean and Meredith were down at the beach one night, doing what teenagers do on beaches late at night, when the . . . I dunno, swarm or school or whatever, of these Barmaids-"

"Wait, Barmaids?"

John sighed. "Dean's name for them. As in Barbie Mermaids. Because they were tiny disproportionate humans and fish mixed together. And creepy as hell."

Shawn snorted. "Dude, that doesn't even surprise me."

"Plus we'd been in Pennsylvania before that during Oktoberfest so he had a thing for barmaids at the time. I'd think he wouldn't want to name them that if he liked barmaids, but . . . I don't know. Sometimes his logic still confuses me."

Shawn continued to quietly snicker from the passenger seat. "Barmaids . . ."

"So Dean and Meredith were down at the beach when the Barmaids come out of the water. Apparently the little bastards were amphibious, which is why we couldn't figure out where they were hiding. We were looking in the water, not on land.

"Dean, being well versed in why you never went anywhere unprepared, pulls out his gun and starts shooting them. We didn't know what they might be susceptible to, so he had a mixed mag of every kind of bullet we could think of. Turns out they had the usual supernatural allergy and the silver shots were taking them out of the equation. But there were a whole fucking lot of the little buggers and not even Dean carries that much spare ammo."

Shawn's laughter had died, but his attention was still fully engaged.

"Meredith was dragged off into the ocean. They found what was left of her washed up on shore the next day. Dean was knocked unconscious, but apparently they were satisfied with her and didn't need him because he was right there on the beach where it happened, chewed up pretty badly, but alive."

Shawn swallowed.

John stopped for a light and met his gaze dead on.

"Meredith didn't know about Dean's life, about what our family does. I can tell you other stories of people he _did_ trust with this secret. They don't end much better."

"Are you trying to scare me?" Shawn asked, skin a few shades paler than it had been just moments ago.

John looked forward as the light changed and then nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because around me and my sons too many people die that shouldn't. And if you choose to take that risk that's your decision, but I want to make damn sure you know what exactly the risk is."

Shawn nodded, flippant and reckless tongue leashed pretty effectively by the pointed words and the sordid tale.

"Now, I won't blame you—and I know Sam and Dean won't either—if you decide to step back now and save yourself a whole lotta trouble."

Shawn remained quiet, staring at his hands where they played with the zipper of his bag.

"If it makes you feel better, this is really only an increase in the likelihood of you encountering something supernatural. Most of the people I meet every day don't get this much warning. Actually, come to think of it, you didn't get any when that werewolf attacked, did you?"

"Not really, no. And by the way? You suck at reassuring pep talks."

John laughed. "Yeah. Reassuring was never my strong suit. Hell if I know where Dean and Sam learned it from."

Shawn snorted.

"Look, now you know what's out there. Knowledge is power. You're a whole step up from most of the ignorant bastards walking around out there who just get attacked by a black dog or a wendigo. They never see it coming and they're never seen again. That oughta make you feel better."

Shawn leveled an incredulous look at him.

"Or not."

"You are so lucky my coping mechanisms kick ass. And don't be surprised if I send you a bill for therapy anyway."

John snorted, one side of his mouth curling up. "If you can find me."

Shawn frowned, but didn't respond, his eyes dropping to his nervously fidgeting hands.

John drove for a while, letting him think.

His thoughts were so absorbing that he didn't even notice that outside the window things were becoming a lot more familiar.

When the truck stopped and the engine cut he finally looked up in surprise. In front of them stood his apartment building.

"How . . ."

John chuckled. "Son, I hunt things for a living. Things that, often times, try to assimilate into regular human society so as to draw less attention to themselves when they kill. And more often then not they're damn good at it. I know a thing or two about getting information on a person. Especially when that person isn't even trying to hide."

Oooookay. Shawn filed that away in the 'creepy things to NEVER FORGET about John Winchester' folder of his brain.

John reached into the backseat and pulled out a small duffel bag.

"Here."

"What's this?" Shawn asked, pulling on the zipper and peering inside. A dream catcher, a bottle labeled—unsurprisingly—HH2O, a big ass knife like Dean's, a small notebook, and a bunch of other things Shawn didn't immediately recognize, though he'd be figuring out what they were _very_ soon.

"Think of it as a supernatural first aid kit. Now, I already took care of warding your place-"

That brought Shawn's head up with a snap. "You what?"

John waved a hand. "Nothing complex or obvious. You won't even know it's there. Wouldn't hurt for you to invest in some salt for the doors and windows, but it's not necessary. You should be pretty damn safe right now. Especially since you don't go looking for trouble like we do. You have any questions about what's in your apartment or that bag, you call Dean or Sam and they'll explain it to you. And if anything comes after you, same thing. You hole up in your apartment and you call for the cavalry. If you can't get my boys for some reason, there are other numbers in that book. Don't keep it right next to your phone, but do keep it handy. _This_," he emphasized, waving at the bag, "does not make you a hunter or a hero. It makes you a victim more likely to survive. Are we clear?"

This time there was no stopping it. "Yes, sir."

John nodded. "Good."

They sat there for another second, staring at each other, then John's lips curved upward. "You can get out of the truck now, son."

Shawn blinked, then reached for the door handle.

He climbed down, shouldering his laundry and gripping the bag of the duffel, then stopped.

"Damn," John said, "I almost forgot. You got a gun?"

Shawn blinked. Again. He was doing that a lot today.

"Uh . . . no?"

John got out and headed back to the rear of the truck. Morbid curiosity had Shawn following.

When the gear box came to a stop and the lid was opened, Shawn's eyes bugged wide.

"Holy _shit_."

John pulled out two magazines for a handgun. He picked up Shawn's empty hand and plunked one of them down. "Blessed silver," he explained, then added the second. "Consecrated iron. If it's corporeal use the silver, if it's not, the iron. It's not a final solution for everything, but it'll delay them long enough for you to run and get to safe ground, either here or a church. Pretty much any church will do. I'd give you a gun, but, uh, for someone who doesn't live in the shadows, a legal firearm is best. So I'll leave that to you. And Shawn?"

Shawn's eyes had dropped to stare at the rounds, but now he looked up.

"Don't use these for target practice, okay? Save these for the actual fuglies. You need more you get a hold of Dean or Caleb. He's listed in the book," he said with a nod to the duffel.

John walked him up to the sidewalk to make sure he didn't stand in the parking lot and get himself hit by a regular old car, then headed for his truck once more.

"Hey, John?"

The call stopped the hunter and he looked back. "Yeah?"

"Do you do this for all of Sam and Dean's friends?"

The look John gave him was both amused and sad.

"Kid, most people are smart enough to tuck their tail between their legs and run as far and as fast as they can. Good luck."

Shawn frowned, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Or even an answer to his question.

The truck started up and John backed out, then paused, rolling down his window.

"Shawn."

"Yeah?" he said warily.

"When you call my son to tell him about this little chat, you mind also telling him not to bother coming out here for me? I won't even be in the state by then. He knows what his job is. He and Sam both do."

Shawn's frown deepened, but John just waved and drove off, leaving a very confused young man in his wake.

Shawn looked down at the duffel again, then up at his apartment, the window visible from here.

He sat on the curb and pulled out his phone, calling up Dean's name in his phone book and hitting the 'send' button.

It rang twice before Dean answered.

"_Yeah?"_

"Dude, your dad is one scary son of a bitch."

* * *

This is the end. You'll have to imagine all the wonderful angst of such a phone conversation between the boys. It's time for us to move on to the next epi! YAYZ!

Oh and . . .

Review, please and thanks! :D


	8. Seven: Paradise Not Found Try Again?

This chapter would not have happened without the bullheaded determination of my beta and cheerleader, MusicalLuna. Srsly, babe, what would I do without you?

**TIMELINE MARKER**

Psych: So close . . . and yet so far. Either way, still pre-series. :D

SPN: The Benders. *giggles* This one is FUUUUUUUUN.

* * *

"Sam!" Dean spun in the parking lot, the rising sense of panic breaching his gut and starting to snake up his esophagus. "SAMMY!" Struggling to force down the fear threatening to cut off his air supply, he looked around again, eyes catching on a surveillance camera on a nearby streetlight. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, where was Sam?

Feet moving of their own volition, he walked to the middle of the empty road, staring in both directions, a sick feeling washing over him in a wave. "_SAM!_"

Where the hell was he?

"When I find you, your ass is _grass, _Sam!" he informed his wayward sibling.

When Sam didn't leap out of the bushes near the road laughing like an idiot and no other explanations presented themselves, he shoved both hands through his hair and headed back toward the Impala, stuffing a hand into his pocket.

"Shitshit_shit._"

He paced as he brought the phone to his ear, muttering to himself in a voice that he refused to admit was getting a little higher than was manly. "Come on. Come on. Come on. Dammit, answer the phone!" he snapped.

_"Well, hi to you too,"_ Shawn replied blithely.

"Did Sam call you?" It was a little more brusque than his usual approach but fucking hell-

Shawn was as perceptive as usual and there was a frown in his voice when he replied, _"No,"_ and then tacked on hesitantly,_ "Is something wrong?_

"Fuck," Dean muttered under his breath and swiped a hand over his mouth. "Shit."

There was a half-second pause on the other end of the line and then: _"I'll take that as a yes. What's going on?"_

Dean's hand clenched into a fist that he pressed into one eye socket until he saw stars. "I don't know, dammit."

_"Okay, I'm going to assume that Sam is not with you. And that this has been the case long enough to make you concerned."_

Dean's hand dropped, and his expression and voice both went flat. "No shit, Sherlock. You win fucking Detective of the Year award."

_"Hey, you're the one communicating in profanities and not much else. I'm just trying to figure out why."_

Dean sighed, head dropping until his chin touched his chest. He breathed deeply for a moment, then lifted it again, trying to at least _sound_ calm.

"Sam and I are looking at some disappearances. We have a witness who says that it was some kind of monster but couldn't give a real clear description. We came to a bar tonight to get a drink and spin some theories but fucking _Sam_ wanted to call it a night early."

Damn. Losing it again.

He inhaled and exhaled and swallowed.

"I had to piss and Sam was packing up. I told him to meet me outside. He was outta my sight for all of three minutes, I swear. And now he's fucking gone. I'm gonna put a damn _leash_ on that boy when I find him."

_"Okay,"_ Shawn said. _"Now, please don't bite my head off but, you've checked the bar and the parking lot I assume?"_

Dean frowned. "What the hell kind of question is that? You think this is my first missing person I've encountered?"

_"No. But I think your brother is the one missing and I don't know if you've noticed this, but you tend to be a little protective of him. It can cloud your ability to think."_

"You know what, screw this. I just wanted to know if he'd called you or something. I don't need your help finding him."

_"No! Wait, De-"_

He snapped the phone shut and headed for the car.

The sounds of Metallica drifted out of his pocket, but he just glanced at the screen long enough to see it wasn't Sam and then stuffed it back in and ignored it.

He didn't need Shawn's help. He'd been hunting since he was a kid.

He could do this his damn self.

o.o

_"This is Dean Winchester-"_

"Dammit," Shawn cursed. He waited for the message to end, then sighed. "Dean. Stop being an ass. Call me back." He shut his phone and tossed it on the counter.

A day and a half and at least thirty voice mails later and Shawn had yet to hear from either Winchester brother.

Sam's phone was going straight to his mail service which didn't bode well, and Dean wasn't picking up.

He didn't know if it was because Dean was pissed at him, but since there was no answer when he used Gus' phone either Shawn assumed it was because Dean was too busy looking for Sam.

He had no reason to assume they were dead yet, and he'd keep telling himself that until he did.

Or until Dean's phone stopped ringing and started going straight to voice mail too.

Dammit.

He couldn't even go there and force Dean to talk to him in person because—_as usual_—he had no idea where the hell they were.

What was it with the Winchesters and keeping their location a secret? You'd think they worked for the CIA or something.

He leaned on the counter, arms braced, fingers of one hand tapping in agitation.

Bobbling his head from side to side, he frowned at his phone then snatched it up and pressed the send button for auto-redial.

"Come on," he muttered. "Pick up, dammit."

_"This is Dean-"_

"SHIT."

He growled out his frustration, then grabbed his jacket and headed out, phone secured in an inner pocket where he'd actually feel the vibrations if it rang. He needed some time on his bike.

o.o

The first time Dean had called him it was Monday night.

By late Wednesday afternoon Shawn had given up on getting an answer by phone.

Fortunately he had learned a few tricks in his time away from Santa Barbara. Actually, he'd learned quite a few of them before he'd left, but the ones that would help him now had come while outside the city limits of his hometown.

First he tried calling the major providers with a story about his cousin who'd been in a car accident not too long ago and was still suffering some memory problems and wasn't answering his phone and could they maybe use his E911 signal to give him the location because he probably needed more of his meds. Unfortunately, none of them had a 'Dean Winchester' listed as a customer. Not too surprising a result, but he had to try.

Next he tried a reverse number search online to see if he could figure out Dean's alias. Also a bust.

It took the cashing in of a favor with a friend from Texas, but he finally managed to get a location on Dean's cell phone GPS.

Hibbing, Minnesota. Shawn's head tilted to the side. Huh. Okay.

Calling for flights netted him disappointing news.

It was _possible_ to get there from Santa Barbara which was good. He didn't want to leave his bike at the LA airport. And it went right into Hibbing itself, which was also awesome because he wouldn't have to try and find the stupid town.

Unfortunately it was _only_ possible if he changed planes _three times_ between here and Hibbing.

And it would take him almost a full day.

But since he didn't seem to have any other options . . .

He booked the flight while he assembled a stack of clothes for a day or two. He paused briefly in his closet, staring at the corner where he'd hidden the 'Supernatural First Aid Kit'.

Should he bring what he could? The weapons were out, obviously, unless he checked his bag and he didn't want to waste that time, but he could get more of those in Minnesota if he absolutely had to. Probably.

Deciding that preparedness was the better part of not dying at some mythical beastie's claws, he snagged the handle and dragged it out.

He hadn't really taken that close of a look at the stuff yet, but a quick search was able to identify and remove the obvious contraband for a plane.

The rest he left in, stuffed his clothes on top, paused to grab a few toiletries, and then headed for the door.

If Dean was just being an ass and not answering his phone Shawn was going to kill him.

Or call his father and tell John that his son was a jerk and let him take care of the ass-kicking.

When your opponent could hand you your butt on a platter without breaking a sweat, tattling wasn't the wussy way out. It was strategy at its finest.

Plan in mind, Shawn revved his bike and set off for the airport.

o.o

Shawn wasn't really feeling up to searching the entire town of Hibbing, Minnesota, when he finally got off the plane, but all his friend in Texas had been able to tell him was that Dean was a few miles outside of the city.

As eager as he was to locate the missing Winchesters, he wasn't dumb enough to go rushing out there without some sort of plan. It's not like they were being held hostage by a couple of humans or anything. Who knew what it was that had caught them?

Unfortunately, John Winchester wasn't answering his phone either—what the _hell_ was their problem with that anyway?—so Shawn didn't really know what to expect might be out there.

He settled for the safer option of locating their motel room and hoping it would have some clues. Perhaps a diagram with the vulnerable area of the beast circled in red and a note on what kind of weapon would kill it . . .

Unfortunately, there were no Winchesters listed at any hotels or motels within fifty miles of Hibbing, a fact that took him most of the afternoon to determine. Happily the diner he had settled into had a very delicious pineapple upside down cake.

He decided as he finished off his third—or was it fourth?—piece that he seriously needed to have a talk with Dean about aliases.

His failures so far left Shawn with one option: going to the police.

He hailed a cab and was dropped off in front of the local sheriff's office.

Spotting the Impala outside he breathed a fervent thanks to any deities that might be listening and jogged for the doors.

A trim, perky blonde was manning the front counter and she smiled widely at Shawn when he entered. "Hi!" she greeted.

Shawn was not immediately impressed by the police force of Hibbing, Minnesota. They had customer service down pat, sure, but a lifetime of dealing with law enforcement left one with a certain understanding of why cops acted the way they did. Polly Perky here meant either she was _very_ new or just _reeeally_ inexperienced. Neither was a good thing when you were looking for someone under normal circumstances. Add in the supernatural element and a growing feeling of doom was taking root in Shawn's gut.

But he could work with this. Maybe. "Hi," he said, returning the smile. "My name is Shawn Spencer. I'm looking for a friend—actually, two of them."

"Are they missing?"

Shawn blinked. _No,_ he thought sarcastically, _I just figured you might know the location of every damn person inside the city limits._

"Uh, yeah."

"Okay," she said, fingers hovering over her keyboard. "Last name?"

"Winchester."

Her eyes widened. "_Sam_ Winchester?"

"Yes!" Finally! "Is he here?"

"Oh, uh, no, but Deputy Hudak is with an Officer Washington? I think that's his name."

Shawn's eyebrow rose. "You're not sure?"

She grinned. "I wasn't really paying attention to his _name_, you know?" At Shawn's eye roll she shrugged. "Anyway, he's from State or something. I guess he's Sam's cousin and he was there when Sam was taken, so he's following up on the case personally."

"Awesome," Shawn said. "Where is he? Can I talk to him?"

"Oh they're out following up on a lead. Been gone all day today and yesterday actually. I haven't even seen them since they left yesterday. I can leave them a message though. Unless you have information on Sam's whereabouts? I could call them on the radio too."

"Ah, no. See, I'm Sam's . . . other cousin. From his Mom's side," he added when she looked confused.

She nodded. "Oh. Well, I can have him call you when they get back."

"No, that's okay. I've got his cell phone number. I'll try it again. Maybe they were just out of range."

"Okay! Well if you need anything else, just let me know," she said, giving him a quick scan that said she probably hadn't been paying that much attention to his name either.

Shawn smiled and left, wondering how the hell she'd ever gotten through the academy.

Minnesota must have lower standards than California. Or it was a case of Affirmative Action biting them in the ass.

Stopping on the sidewalk in front of the station, he looked at the Impala sitting across the street.

He'd taken a cab from the airport and then mostly walked around town as needed.

And if Dean was just out with the Deputy, he'd be pissed as hell to come back to find his 'baby' missing.

Buuuuuuuut he'd been an ass the last two days.

Or he was missing.

Either way, Shawn figured that taking the car was a better idea than leaving it.

However, Shawn didn't have keys and breaking into a car in front of a police station was never a bright idea.

Thinking of Hibbing's 'finest', he turned and headed back inside.

The front desk jockey—Plattner by her name tag—looked up and smiled again. "Back already?" she asked.

Shawn gave her his best sheepish grin and tossed a thumb over his shoulder.

"Ah, actually . . ." He coughed. "I'm a little . . . uh," he waved a hand near his head, "distracted by my cousin's disappearance, and I seem to have locked my keys in my car. I don't suppose you could-"

"Oh sure!" She turned on her seat. "Hey, Mark?"

A head poked out of a back office. "Yeah, Sherrie?"

"He locked his keys in his car," she said, pointing to Shawn. "Can you give him a hand?"

Mark's eyes shifted to Shawn who was desperately hoping 'Sherrie' was a representative of the average Hibbing Deputy IQ and not a special case.

But Mark just smiled. "Sure. Let me grab the slim jim."

He vanished again and Shawn returned Sherrie's bright smile. "Thanks so much . . . Sherrie?"

"You bet, Shawn," she said with a wink.

Oh look. She _had_ been paying attention.

Mark reappeared and Shawn led the way outside.

"She's a beaut," the deputy said as he drank in the lines of the muscle car. "Restored?"

"Ah no. She's been in the family for years."

"Nice." It was the work of a few seconds to slip the bar down into the door and flip the catch. A tug on the handle and the door popped open.

"There you go."

"Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate this," Shawn said as he climbed in. He laughed. "I just don't know where my brain is," he added, feeling under the seat and praying there was a spare set of keys.

Happily Mark wasn't paying that close attention.

"It happens to all of us. You have a good day."

"You too," Shawn said and closed the door, making a show of still looking for the keys.

Mark patted the roof, then left, heading across the street and waving to a woman and her kids walking past on the sidewalk.

Shawn watched him go as his hands left the floor mats and reached under the ignition.

He paused for a moment to ponder the likelihood of Dean killing him for this—pretty much guaranteed—but Shawn figured he'd worry about that when he found Dean.

A few stripped wires and a touch to the steering column later and the car roared to life.

Now to find the Brothers Winchester.

o.o

In the end it was a receipt for a motel, dated a week ago and with an address located here in town, that pointed Shawn in a productive direction.

It also, handily enough, had a name and room number on it.

He parked the car just within sight of the front office and then headed inside.

No cute little blondes here, the motel manager was old, wrinkly, and male.

And also in need of a bath. Ugh.

Shawn smoothed away his revulsion and put on a grin before the guy turned from his TV.

"Hi, my name is Shawn Newsted. My brothers are staying here, uh, but," he smiled and chuckled, "they forgot to get a key for me. Would it be possible-"

"Room?"

"Um, nine?" Shawn said, not entirely surprised when the story was bought without any real resistance.

A key was tossed his way and he caught it before it slipped off onto the floor.

"If you're staying past tomorrow you're gonna have to pay more."

Shawn glanced up at that and then nodded. "I'll remind them, thanks."

Key in hand, he headed out and down to room nine.

Inside he found signs that they had definitely been here for at least a week, but probably not in the last two days. Damn.

They had—helpfully—tacked what looked like most of a case file to the south wall across from the beds, so that was good.

Shawn gave it a quick scan, but saw nothing obvious by way of a creature description or picture jump out at him.

Lovely.

He sighed, and took a seat at the table, resigning himself to actual going through all of this to find some clearer answers.

o.o

By the time they got back to town, Dean was more than ready to pick up his baby, go back to the motel, shower, get some painkillers in his system, and pass out for a day or two.

It was a glorious plan in its simplicity and he was quite proud of how it cut out any extraneous effort that might cause delays.

There was just ooooooone little problem.

His car was not at the station.

He stopped and stared at the empty spot while next to him Sam gave a low groan. "I thought you said you left it here!"

"I did."

Dean's brow furrowed. Had he taken her back to the motel?

No. Because then Kathleen would have had to pick him up. Or he would have had to walk.

No, he was sure he'd left her here.

Which begged the question . . . WHERE THE HELL WAS SHE?

Sam seemed to realize that Dean's silence was not a good thing.

"Dean?"

Dean was turning in place, wondering if they would have towed her into the station's impound lot here or if that was located somewhere else.

"Fuck."

Sam sighed, head lolling back. "Don't tell me. It got towed."

"How the hell should I know? I left her right the fuck here," he snapped, jerking a hand at the empty curb.

Dean looked at the spot as if willing his car to reappear. "Dammit."

Sam sighed. "Look, how about we go back to the motel and in the morning-"

"Sam, I have had a shitty week. And today, with its creepy ass family and their creepy ass hobby of hunting people and locking them in cages and using fucking flaming hot pokers on them, was just the shitty sauce on top of that particular crap sundae. Now to add a turd of a cherry on top, my car has been taken who the hell knows where.

"Now I'm guessing—since we're in front of a police station—that she wasn't stolen. Which means the officers _inside_ the police station probably know where she is. I am not walking back to the motel just so I can walk back here in the morning and ask where the fuck they took my car. Got it?"

Checking the road for traffic, Dean strode across the asphalt, the weariness from walking all the way back into town gone in the anger of this latest reminder from the universe that he was not a favored pet of Fate.

"Dean! Wait!" Sam said, cutting him off before he got to the doors.

"Sam," he said through gritted teeth. "Move. Your. Ass."

"Dean, you can't go in there."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because you stole a police officer's badge along with his identity and they know it."

Dean's face screwed up. "_FUCK!"_

_Could this day get any fucking _worse_?_

"I'll go in."

Dean looked him up and down.

"What?" Sam asked under the scrutiny.

"And this a better plan how? You're the missing person they've been looking for. And not just because I said so. Your record says you're wanted for questioning."

Sam huffed a breath in frustration. "Look, Dean, either one of us goes in there or we go back to the motel. I'm not seeing a lot of other options and frankly, I'd like to get to a shower and a bed sometime before the end of this century."

Dean still didn't look happy. "And I don't?" he snapped.

Valiantly repressing his first response behind compressed lips, Sam said, "I'm just going to ask about the car. I won't tell them who I am. If we're lucky the officer at the desk won't recognize my face."

Dean snorted. "Oh yeah, because our luck here has been outstanding so far. And why are they going to tell you about my car? You're going to have to give them something besides morbid curiosity."

"What do you want me to do, Dean?" Sam demanded, arms stretched out to the side. "It's this or we go back to the motel and call. And either way, once we locate the car we still have to figure out how to get it out of the impound."

Dean unleashed a string of curses to make a Marine blush.

"I'll go in, take two seconds, be back out," Sam said. "That or we start walking again."

Dean considered it, then shook his head.

"No, you've been the hot topic around here the last few days thanks to me. I doubt anyone in there hasn't seen your picture. _Fuck!" _A frustrated hand carded through his hair as he paced a short circuit away and back.

Sam sighed, exhaustion giving way to the desire to argue about this. "Well, we can't do anything standing around here and if both of us are wanted, then we should probably loiter somewhere else."

With one last heartfelt, "_Dammit!_" Dean led the way back to the sidewalk and down the road toward the motel.

o.o

Arriving at their home-of-the-week, Dean gave the parking lot a hopeful sweep of his eyes, but no dice. He hadn't suffered a massive brain fart and left the Impala here.

Muttering dark thoughts about law enforcement who needed to be eating more donuts and towing fewer cars, he dug his room key out of his pocket and fitted it into the lock. A wiggle and a bump and it opened, allowing them entrance.

Sam went straight for his bed, dropping to sit on the end with a groan of pure relief and allowing gravity to take over and pull him down to lay flat on the mattress. Lumpy it may be, but at this point he didn't even care. It was heaven in misshapen poly-cotton fibers.

Dean wasn't yet ready to call it a day, though he was getting close. He just needed to find out where his baby was being held for the night.

With that in mind he called up the number for the station on his 'Recently Dialed' list and held out the phone to Sam.

Sam frowned, then recalled their remaining problem and accepted the cell.

He sat up while it rang, eyes following Dean to the first aid kit and then back to the bed to sit next to him. It gave his older brother proximity to eavesdrop on the phone call and allowed him to perform the necessary after-action-treatment.

It also got Sam closer to sleep so he didn't even consider protesting.

"_Hibbing_ _County Sheriff's Office. This is Sherrie. How can I help you?"_

"Yes, uh, hi. I'm calling to inquire about a vehicle I believe may have been towed."

"_Okay, can you give me a description of the vehicle including license plate number?"_

Sam realized just how asleep his brain was when it _finally_ occurred to him that the Impala would be linked to their records and having it put into a database for a search would likely bring up a red flag.

He shut his mouth, then glanced at Dean who raised his eyebrows to ask why the hell he wasn't answering.

"Black," he muttered. "1967. Chevy Impala. Come on, Sam, Dad's had that thing since before _I_ was born."

"_Hello?"_

"Uh, yes. Sorry. Um. It was, uh, it was parked in front of the station earlier today-"

If she thought it odd he wasn't describing his missing vehicle, it didn't show. She just plowed right ahead. _"And you think it was towed?"_

"Well it wasn't there when I went back for it," Sam said dryly. "And it was parked in front of a sheriff's office, so I doubt it was stolen."

Dean rolled his eyes as he swabbed alcohol over an abrasion on Sam's arm making him flinch.

"Sorry," Dean said, and it sounded sincere enough to make Sam think that Dean's concern for his car was waning in the light of seeing the extent of Sam's injuries. The frown on his face and the hardness of his eyes said clearly that he was thinking of going back and finishing the damn hunt. Maybe give the Benders a taste of their own medicine.

"_I don't have any cars towed from that location. We did have a guy lock his keys in and need a jimmy, but-"_

Dean's head shot up as his eyes met Sam's.

"He said he locked his keys in the car?"

"_Yeah. Poor guy. He was worried about his missing cousin and it's got him all messed up."_

"Did you happen to get his name?"

"_Yeah. Why?"_

Dean pressed a bandage into place as the sound of a car engine outside drew closer and stopped right in front of the room, then cut out.

They exchanged a look as Dean rose, grabbing a gun and moving quickly and silently to flank the door.

Sam gave a sort of laugh as a key was inserted in the lock of the door.

"My cousin," Sam said, hand moving to his own gun, "he's got such a sense of humor, I just thought it might be-"

Just as the door opened the deputy on the phone interrupted. _"You're Shawn Spencer's cousin? Are you Sam or are you guys having a family reunion this week or what?"_

Shawn stepped into the room and then froze, hands coming up at the sight of two guns pointed at his head.

"Shawn?" Dean demanded as he and Sam lowered their guns. "What the hell?"

"My cousin just showed up. Thanks for your time." Sam hung up and dropped the phone on the bed, wiping a hand over his face as the adrenaline began to fade for the thousandth time today.

Dean stuck his head out the door, then yanked it back. "_You_ had my car? How the hell were _you_ driving my car? You don't have-"

The bug-eyed look that suddenly possessed Dean's face would have been hilarious if it didn't mean that Sam had to stand up again and get between his brother and Shawn before the former killed the latter.

"Dean-" he started and took a step, but Dean's arm was already pulling back in preparation for a nasty right hook. "No!" he shouted and leapt forward, tackling his brother as Shawn jumped back against the wall, pressing himself into the corner, all color drained from his face.

"Let me go, Sam! I'm gonna kill him!"

"Wait! I can explain!" Shawn protested.

"Dean," Sam said, grateful for their long walk now as it actually evened the playing ground just a little. But not much, so he'd have to talk fast. "Dean, you can't kill him."

"Sure I can. I have a gun. I have several guns. I have a knife. Hell, I even have a _car_. I could run him over. I have lots of ways I can kill him, Sammy."

"Dean! He's not- STOP IT, DEAN!" Sam snarled when his wriggling sibling tried kicking out at Shawn, leaning his full weight on Sam and lifting his feet.

"He hot-wired my car, Sam. He _hot-wired_ it!"

"I know, Dean," Sam said, searching for patience but quickly coming to the end of that particular rope. "But he doesn't deserve death for that."

"You're right. He deserves so much more."

Dean surprised them all when he suddenly went limp in Sam's grasp. The dead weight was unexpected and Sam went down with a, "Shit! Dean!"

He released his brother's wet noodle-esque form and rolled him onto his back, one hand going to his chest to check respirations, the other pulling up his eyelids and looking for any signs of bleeding that might indicate stroke. Holy hell, had he just _died_ from that pissy fit?

"Is he . . ." Shawn asked, swallowing audibly and creeping closer, gaze flickering between Sam and Dean.

And then Dean's eyes flew open and his hands braced on the ground and he was up, pitching past Sam and straight for Shawn.

"Oh _SHIT_!" Shawn said and jumped back, sliding along the wall and up onto the bed, headed for the safety of the open area of the room.

Dean was too close behind him though and he grabbed Shawn's leg and yanked, bringing Shawn down before he even got over the bed.

"Ow! Owie! Ow! Ow!" Shawn hissed as he tried to push up and keep moving.

Dean was already on him though, their shared momentum taking them both onto the floor between the beds where Dean got in two good punches to Shawn's back.

"Dammit!" Shawn cursed, body twisting, hands coming up to protect himself. "Ow! What the- STOP! OW, DEAN!"

Sam managed to catch up and stop Dean's fist from going for a third.

"Dean!" Sam was shouting, wrapping his arms around his brother and pulling him away toward the end of the bed, his only goal at the moment to get distance between Shawn and Dean.

Dean was still panting and muttering direly, but his energy was fading and Sam was able to contain him.

"I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"What the _hell?_" Shawn said, dabbing a finger to his lip where he'd smacked his head on the side of the bed in his fall. It came away red and he frowned at the blood.

Dean stopped actively fighting in Sam's grasp, trying to jerk free here and there, but not to go after Shawn.

"Let me go," he growled.

"Are you going to kill Shawn?" Sam asked.

Shawn's eyes came up at that and locked onto Dean's face.

Dean's narrowed eyes focused on him but there wasn't an immediate verbal answer.

"Dean!" Sam barked.

Dean half-sighed/half snarled. "No," he finally said. "He'll live. For now."

Shawn took the opportunity to climb up onto the bed and back over to the area by the door. Just in case.

Sam let his grip loosen and when Dean just pushed to his knees and then hauled himself up on the bed, making no movement to go after Shawn again, it appeared that the danger zone was finally past.

Sam thought about staying on the carpet and passing out. He could see who was still alive in the morning.

But Dean extended a hand down to him. "Come on. We've got to finish cleaning those cuts. And while we do, _Shawn_," he glared again at the other man, "is going to explain what the hell he's doing here."

Some of Shawn's fear faded and he leveled his own glare on Dean. "You weren't returning my calls."

"And? I don't answer to you, Shawn. I'm not obligated to keep you up to date on my social calendar."

"Dude! You called and said Sam had gone _missing_. You were freaking out!"

Dean's gaze drew darker if that was possible. Interestingly to Shawn, it also flicked to Sam.

"I was _not_ freaking out."

Shawn's head tilted to the side, his chin dropping. "Dude, if that wasn't freaking out then I wasn't attacked by a werewolf. Seriously. You were totally freaking out."

Dean's lips pressed tightly together and he started for Shawn.

"Whoa!" Shawn protested, arms coming up for protection, face scrunching down, bracing for impact. "Okay! Okay! Maybe it wasn't freaking out!"

"Dean!" Sam said and followed.

Dean put up a hand to halt him. "I'm not going to hurt him. I just want to talk to him. Outside. If that's all right with you two?"

Shawn opened his eyes and peeked at Dean, but when Sam nodded he did the same. He was pretty sure Sam still liked him enough to not want him dead. He hoped.

"Okay. Just _talk_," Sam emphasized, pointing at Dean.

"Yeah, yeah. No blood." The corners of Dean's lips dipped briefly. "No _more_ blood anyway."

Shawn opened the door and stepped outside. His eyes went to Sam, the plea there easily read.

"He's not going to kill you, Shawn. And if he tries, I'm right on this side of the door."

Shawn nodded and Dean pulled the door shut.

Dean headed for the driver's side door of the Impala, his eyes roaming over the exterior to see if there were any glaring dents, dings, or scratches. He grunted. Nothing obvious. But he'd be taking a closer look later.

Shawn was still on the sidewalk in front of the room and Dean jerked a hand at the car. "Hop in."

"I don't think-"

Hazel met hazel, one set deceptively—and alarmingly—calm, the other blatantly—and alarmedly—nervous.

"I'm not going to kill you. We're not even driving anywhere since you freakin' tore up the ignition. I'm not hot-wiring her again right now. I'll fix her in the morning. And you're paying for flushes and fills of all her fluid systems as an apology."

Shawn was smart enough not to argue with the man who was probably armed but didn't need any weapons to kill him right now. Or ever. He was also having some serious reconsideration of his plan and reasoning behind it. A mistake he would not make again.

"Then why-"

"Because I'd rather not have this conversation in the open air where everyone can hear it!" Dean snapped. "Holy fucking-"

The rest of his curses were lost as he climbed in and shut the door with both great force and great care.

Shawn hesitated another moment and then went to the passenger side and gingerly took a seat, shutting the door with just great care under Dean's watchful eye.

Shawn immediately started in. "Look, maybe I shouldn't have taken your car-"

"_Maybe_?" Dean said. "_MAYBE?_ How about _definitely_? You shouldn't even be in this state!" Then Dean's brow furrowed. "How the hell did you find us anyway?"

"I had a friend hack into your cell carrier's system and trace your E911 GPS signal."

Dean's eyebrows rose.

"Which reminds me, I'm not sure I can do that again so maybe you can tell me what name the contract is under so I can give them a story about how you're diabetic and need your medication and could die if I don't find you?"

Dean just snorted. "Yeah. Right. Like I'm going to make it _easier_ for you to find me."

"Dude, you weren't answering your phone! I was worried, okay? So sue me!"

"And just what was your plan anyway? Come out here and what? Hunt down whatever snatched us by yourself? I told you, Shawn, you're not a damn hunter."

"Oh well, forgive me for not wanting to just let you vanish into the wilds of Minnesota," Shawn snapped. Dean had toned down the scary and Shawn was feeling much more comfortable expressing his own frustration with the last three days.

"Shawn, we're _hunters_. I did mention this part to you, I know you did. Vanishing off the face of the Earth never to be seen again is pretty much the number one way you get out of this life when you hunt the supernatural. It sucks, but it's a risk of the job. A job _you don't share_."

"Oh for-" Shawn rolled his eyes. "I get it, okay? I'm not a hunter! How many times are you going to say that?"

"As many times as it takes to get it through your thick freaking skull! This is not a game or a joke or a fun adventure for the weekend and vacations. This is serious and it's deadly and, _dammit,_ I am tired of people dying."

Shawn fell silent at the admission, the pain and weariness under the words.

Dean stared out the front window as he sought control. When he had as good a grip as he was going to get on it, he continued, voice low.

"Every day, every case, do you know what I see?" He turned to look at Shawn now, pinning him in place with his intensity. "I see people die. Normal, regular people with no clue about what's out there hiding in the dark. They're just living their lives, fat, dumb, and happy until one day the shadows grow teeth and claws and jump out and rip them to shreds. I see it every day and I can't stop it. Not really. I kill every evil fugly I can, but you know what? There's always another one out there. Another one waiting in the dark and until it kills someone . . . I don't even know it's there. I can't stop the first few deaths because that's what tells me there's a pattern, a connection, a reason. I just . . ." His fingers dug into his eye sockets, then he wiped his hand down his face.

"I don't like seeing people die, Shawn. But people I know? I like that even less."

Shawn sighed, leaning an arm on the door to prop up his chin as he stared out into the night. The rain clouds that had moved in and been threatening all evening finally broke, pattering on the roof and sliding down the windows.

"Do you understand what I'm saying? Can you see where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah." He turned to look at Dean, arm still in place, fist cushioning the back of his head against the window. "But you need to understand something about me, too, Dean. Friends are important to me. And if you need help . . ." He shrugged. "I'm going to try to help. I may not be a badass werewolf hunter, but that doesn't mean I can't help."

Dean snorted, but his smile was genuine.

"You remind me of Sammy when he was, what? Eleven or so? Wanted so damn badly to come on hunts and help. He volunteered to do anything. Carry the gear bag. Dig up a grave. He'd stay up all night reading every book on the supernatural he could get his hands on so that no matter what Dad and I were hunting he could give us something useful to fight it."

Shawn gave look of mock indignation. "Dude, I'm not eleven-years-old."

Dean chuckled. "Not physically maybe. But mentally?"

Shawn shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah okay. Maybe."

Dean's smiled faded and his eyes strayed back out the windshield.

"Look, Shawn, I do appreciate the thought. But, really, if we get in trouble on a hunt? There's not much you can do, man. Except maybe call in some backup for us. You said Dad gave you some numbers?"

"Yeah."

"Call one of them. If Caleb or Pastor Jim can't get to us, they'll find someone who can."

Shawn frowned. "Yeah, fine. You just want to hog all the fun."

Dean snorted again. "Yeah. Fun. Hunting things that try to eat you or throw you into walls. Whee!" he said and tossed his arms up, wincing when that motion reminded him that the adrenaline and therefore the home-grown pain killers were pretty much gone again.

"Ow," he hissed.

But not quietly to escape Shawn's notice, even with the rain tap dancing on the roof.

"Dude, are you hurt?"

Dean waved it off. "I'm fine."

"Uh huh. Wait here."

He ducked out of the car and was hunching quickly through the rain to the room door before Dean could even blink.

Sam answered, stayed for a half second before vanishing inside again. He came back, first aid kit in hand, glanced at the car as he said something, then gave Shawn a small, quicksilver smile and surrendered the kit. Something like amusement crossed his face as he offered a parting shot of some kind and let Shawn go.

The door closed on his grin, Shawn's door opening pulling Dean's attention back to the car.

"Dude!" Dean protested as Shawn slicked back his wet hair. "Water on the seats! Man!" He tried to lean over and rummage in the backseat but his shoulder—throbbing now—lodged a protest.

Shawn just rolled his eyes and ducked over the seat back, coming up with a towel from the floor. "I really hope this doesn't have any sort of bodily fluids on it," he said with a grimace.

He was about to situate it under himself when he had a realization.

"Anything hurt but your left shoulder?"

"No. I'm fine, Shawn, really."

"Humor me, dude. You look like shit. And fine? Yeah, it doesn't include caked blood on your face. Which I totally would have commented on before but _someone_ was trying to kill me."

"You started it," Dean said as he gingerly probed the cut on his scalp with his fingers.

Shawn slapped the hand away. "Stop that." Deciding where he was would work for now, he lifted his ass and slid the towel underneath, then grabbed the first aid kit from the dash and popped it open.

"Wow. Uh, pretty . . . comprehensive kit here." Shawn frowned and picked up a packet, reading the label before dropping it back in.

Dean grunted, leaning back against the seat, having resigned himself to the tender mercies of Shawn.

At least it wasn't Sam who would emo all over him while he cleaned and patched. If Dean was lucky, Sam would never know about some of his wounds and how he came about them.

A shudder ran though his frame at the memory of the hot poker searing his shoulder and then moving to hover above his eye as he desperately tried to think of an alternative to choosing who would live and who would die.

If he never had to even contemplate such a scenario again it would be too soon.

A thought occurred to him and Dean's brow furrowed. "Hey, Shawn, are you even trained in- AUUUGH! FUCK! THE HELL?" His head lifted and turned to Shawn, a glare darkening his eyes.

Shawn shrugged and grabbed Dean's chin, holding him in place while he dabbed the peroxide soaked pad against the cut on Dean's head again, ignoring the continued wincing. "I have been trained in first aid since I was like nine, dude. Dad insisted. CPR certified since fifteen, CPR _instructor_ since like eighteen," he added with a bob of his head to the side. "Lifeguard at sixteen, instructor at eighteen. And yes," he said, dropping the used pad on the lid of the kit and getting a fresh one, "those are all current still. I even spent some time working with EMTs in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I definitely know my way around a first aid kit." He pulled out the mini-Maglite and used it to inspect the now butterflied cut, then lowered it.

"One down, lots more to go. Look at me," he directed and turned Dean's head his way. Pupil checks, a few questions, and another inspection of the cut later and Shawn clicked off the light and popped it between his teeth as he lifted Dean's arm to look at another cut.

"Hohent feem wike-"

"Dude, I have no idea what you're saying."

Shawn pulled the light out and met Dean's eyes. "No concussion. Now hold still."

Dean considered arguing, but gave in and leaned back, letting Shawn work in silence for a few minutes.

"Shirt up."

Dean managed a half-hearted, "You just wanna see my chest, you perv. Try not to be jealous," he said and complied with the order, lifting both layers up to his collarbone.

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah. You've got me pegged so well," he said in a dry monotone. "I want your body one way or another."

Dean laughed, then winced. "Ow. Not cool. Don't do that."

"So what was it?" Shawn asked as he poked and prodded Dean's ribs looking for cracks or breaks.

"Ow!"

Shawn glanced up, but it was only a bruise, nothing more.

"Friggin' people."

Shawn looked up again and frowned. "What?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I know. Not even supernatural. Just some crazy whack jobs living out in the middle of nowhere and not getting out nearly enough if you know what I mean. They liked hunting people. So they'd kidnap a few a year, take 'em back to their place, cage 'em up for a day or two, then let 'em go and hunt their asses down while they tried to escape. Sick bastards," he muttered, hissing when Shawn hit another tender spot, also just a bruise. He'd be black and blue for a few days but nothing more.

"Looks like you got off lucky," Shawn said, sitting up.

"Or something like that," Dean muttered, lowering his shirt. "Ah!" His shoulder flared with white-hot pain and he gritted his teeth. "Fuck."

"Yeah. That's next. Switch me."

Under raised brows, hazel eyes met Shawn's own. "'Scuse me?"

Shawn waved a hand, gesturing. "I need to be on your other side so I can see what I'm doing. Now scootch."

Dean was not pleased with this idea, mostly because it would hurt like fucking hell, but also because it put Shawn on the driver's side and, irrational though it may be, the fear of what had happened before that Dean would never know the details of, lingered. Was Shawn a lead-foot braker or did he give it enough time and ease it down? Only a thorough inspection he didn't have time for would tell.

"Dude, seriously. If we don't go back in soon Sam's going to come out here, knock on the window, and stuff chastity pamphlets in when we open the door. Come on. I'm hungry and way overdue for dinner. Let's finish this up."

Stifling more laughter at the mental image of Sam doing just that, Dean slid sideways while Shawn plastered himself to the roof and then shifted over to the empty spot.

"How did you get a key to the room?" Dean asked as he freed his arm from the over shirt, then pulled down on the sleeve to bare the wound. It was raw and ugly and it hurt like frigging hell. And it was, also, so going to scar. Ah well. Chick-bait. "You tell the manager we had a lover's quarrel and I locked you out?"

Shawn frowned as he concentrated on picking bits of cloth out of the wound with tweezers.

"I told him I was your brother. Almost done with this part," he said, too focused to see the look of surprise cross Dean's face followed by a half smile.

"I already have a little brother. I don't need a second one to look after. You guys are like stray puppies. With worms and mange and shit. Lots of work and your idea of affection is to slobber all over my damn shoes."

Shawn snorted and looked up briefly from under his still lowered head. "Dude, who are you calling _little_ brother? I may be shorter, but I know I'm older."

"No way, dude."

"Year of birth?"

"Seventy-nine," Dean said, craning his neck to watch the progress.

"Seventy-seven."

"No shit? What month?"

"December. You?"

Dean relaxed a little. "January. Barely a year between us."

Shawn grinned. "I'm still older. Told you so."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, I can totally see how you're more mature than me."

Shawn sat up and reached for the wet-wipe packet, still grinning. "Are not."

"Are so. Shit," Dean cursed and braced himself. It wasn't as bad as alcohol or peroxide, but still a second-degree burn like this was really tender to any kind of treatment.

He kept up a steady stream of profanities and vulgarities while Shawn worked quickly.

A slathering of burn cream and a clean, dry gauze pad taped into place and it was done.

Dean was still panting, swallowing down more colorful invectives against the Bender family patriarch and his fucked up hobbies.

"Okay, done," Shawn pronounced. "Anything else?"

Dean shook his head, still trying to stuff the pain back under his usual mask.

He blinked his eyes open again when a, "Here," was murmured. Two painkillers on a palm sat in front of his face and he accepted them, washing them down with the bottle Shawn dug up from the floor.

They sat in silence for a moment as Shawn repacked the kit and gathered the trash, stuffing it into an old fast food bag from the back.

"Okay!" Shawn said, slapping hands on his thighs. "Did we get everything?" He ticked items off on his fingers as he listed them. "More fighting, check. Kiss and make up, check. First aid, check. Requisite gay jokes, check. Therapy for which I am graciously not going to charge you, check." He pouted and wiggled his fingers. "Nope, I think that's all."

Dean pressed a hand to his chest and laughed, trying not to jostle his bruised body any more than necessary.

"Thanks, Shawn."

"You're welcome!" Shawn said, grinning. "See? I can totally help like an adult. Neener neener neener." He stuck out his tongue and Dean didn't quite contain himself, wincing even as he laughed.

"Dose of the best medicine, check," Shawn said smugly.

Then his good humor faded. "Seriously, anything else you need? Anything at all?"

Dean thought momentarily about telling Shawn about Sam's visions and psychic crap, Max Miller and their old home in Kansas . . . Jessica. Maybe ask him if he could do some research or something.

They'd been kind of busy lately and hadn't had much time to do any extra bookwork. At the very least Dean wouldn't be the only one that knew and had no fucking clue what to do about it.

It was Dean's ingrained sense of paranoia that kept his mouth closed.

He liked Shawn and he trusted him about as much as he trusted anyone that wasn't Sammy or Dad.

But this was big. Epic big. And Dean . . . well, he wasn't sure he even trusted himself with this, let alone anyone else.

"Well," he said, rolling his head where it rested on the seat back until he was looking up at Shawn. "You said you trained with EMTs, right?"

"Yeah," Shawn said, confusion descending on his face.

Dean shifted to his side and pointed to his ass. "I have this boil . . . I think it's getting infected. Do you think you could-"

Shawn smacked him on the side of the head that wasn't recently gushing blood. "Shut up."

Dean grinned and lowered his arm.

"Nah, I'm good. What about you? You took a tumble or two in the room there. And, uh, sorry about the punching and, you know, stuff. I break anything?"

Shawn shook his head. "Nah. Just a split lip. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Why? You wanna check _my_ ribs? Dude, and you accuse _me_ of being a jealous perv."

Dean snorted. "Whatever, man." He looked around. "I think we're good. I got all of Sammy's wounds already, so it looks like first aid practice is over."

"Good. You hungry?"

Dean groaned. "Starving."

"Pizza okay?"

"It sounds fantastic. As long as it's here soon I don't really give a rat's ass what it is."

"Let's head in then, shall we? Before the chastity pamphlets start flying."

The rain had slowed to a very light sprinkling as they headed for the door.

"Hey, Shawn?" Dean said, stopping him on the sidewalk.

"Yeah?"

"I do appreciate your coming out here. It's, uh . . ." Dean scratched at the back of his head. "Thanks. Even if you shouldn't have come."

Shawn smiled. "Lecture duly noted."

"Also, if I _ever_ find out you hot-wired my car again, I am kicking your ass from here to Antarctica and back. We clear?"

Shawn smirked. "Crystal."

"All right then. Get your ass inside and order me some pizza already."

"Yes, sir!" Shawn effected a mock salute and led the way in, Dean on his heels smacking him upside the head.

**

* * *

**

Okay so, now we come to a sad point. :(

The next story in this 'verse is too big and too plottish to put into PT. So it's being published separately.

And I don't post multi-chapter stories (that are NOT one-shots) until completed. I just don't do it. I have a horrible habit of not finishing them. So I won't be posting that until it's done.

What this means for PT is that we're going on a short hiatus until that is finished. (Really, this makes sense chronology-wise, I promise.)

Review, please and thanks and I'll see you all soon with sick!Dean and angry!Sammy and overwhelmed!Shawn. :D


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